


the boy who blocked his own shot

by raginginsideme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beacon Hills, Beacon Hills High School, Derek Has Issues, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt Stiles, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Werewolf Reveal, a lot of stupid tags, and a wedding, and stiles is p sad, just know that stiles and derek are stupid, just know there is a lot of angst, stupid mistakes, which adds to that angst unknowingly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:23:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raginginsideme/pseuds/raginginsideme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles was 17 he was in love with Derek Hale.</p>
<p>Eight years later Stiles is 25 and much wiser now; he knows not to rehash old hurtful events and beat dead horses, so he avoids Beacon Hills as long he possibly can. Until, Scott's wedding calls him back to the town and people he wished he could forget.</p>
<p>Except, there's something off about Beacon Hills, and it might not just be the person he's trying to avoid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yesssss I know I shouldn't start a new story, but honestly I've had this idea forever and I want to explore it. I've worked really hard on the first chapter and plan to update regularly. Please leave kudos and comments!

The five hour drive to Beacon Hills left Stiles in a static feeling of stress and anxiety. In the cup holder on his right laid his old stress ball from high school that he’d used to hold onto in class. This morning when he’d slept past his alarm and was rush-packing everything on his list it had rolled out from under his cluttered dresser and he’d stared at it for a couple seconds before bending over and tossing it into his bag.

He had only drove twenty tightly wound minutes before pulling over to the side of the road and digging it out of the bottom of his suitcase and holding it in his right hand as he resumed the drive.

The ball was worn, now, and had served its purpose in letting out some of the anxiety he had had before. But now he was about a half an hour to twenty minutes away from Beacon Hills and he could feel his heart almost jack-rabbiting through his chest.

It oddly reminded him of himself in high school. Most of the time he was a hyperactive mess with flailing limbs that flew everywhere (when he was thirteen he’d been hit with a growth spurt that left him unsure of how to really control his then too long limbs) and only when he was solitary or still would his anxiety come to catch up with him. Of course, that was also the time where he thought he had a support system to fall back on, but that was a different story.

Often times he would lay in bed for hours running over the day’s events and stressors in his head before he would fall into a fitful sleep. It took a prescription of a night time sedative from his physician before he could quit having solitary moments of extreme stress. He would have liked to take one of those pills now, but it had been a long time since he had to break one of those out.

Of course, he had made sure to refill his prescription before coming out here. Just in case.

It wasn’t that he wanted to block out his trip to Beacon Hills . . . it’s just that he did. He had been dreading this trip since he’d gotten the wedding invitation from Scott and the request to be his Best Man. It was an offer he couldn’t turn down, no matter how much he felt physically sick at the prospect of returning back to Beacon Hills.

He’d tried to convince himself that the odds of . . . him living there were slim to none, but it was still a frightening prospect. That was one part of his past he’d been trying to completely shove away from his mind for eight years. He was twenty five now, and a mostly mature adult. If there happened to be ex . . . whatevers, then he’d be perfectly fine dealing (of course there was a small part of his brain that said you were never even considered his ex anything.) 

So he’d sucked it up and called back Scott to tell him he’d be able to come and do the whole shindig before he could lose his nerve. After the phone call had ended he’d had to sit in his kitchen for half an hour trying to quell the impending anxiety attack he was bound to have.

Scott had sounded over the moon, almost not believing it when he’d confirmed he would also be his Best Man. It made sense; he hadn’t stepped foot into that godforsaken town since he’d left for NYU. He moved back to California after he finished his track in an English degree and from there on he had published two decent-selling fictional books. He had been working on an idea for another one, but had currently been uninspired and unmotivated due to the impending distress over his imminent return back to his hometown.

Not only was he going to be there for the pre-wedding and post-wedding details, but was also spending a couple more weeks there to help his dad out around the house ( this was not his idea; it was the result of constant guilt-tripping and unabashed begging by his dad.)

So he packed up most of his closet and had set off to the place he had spent almost every fiber of his being avoiding. It wasn’t an easy feat, but he had managed it for years without fail. His only downfall now was his inability to resist the thought of Scott’s puppy-dog eyes and the constant self-reproach by his father.

And now he was pulling into the town that never seemed to change.  
***********  
It was almost odd how everything was still in place at Beacon Hills. There was still that crappy old Dairy Queen, and the mostly abandoned warehouse near Fifth Street. There was the old ice skating rink he and Scott and Allison used to spend their Friday nights, there was also the small vet clinic that Scott now owned and ran.

Luckily, Beacon Hills High wasn’t on the way to his house; he was sure if he’d seen it he’d have to stop the car due to the memories it would bring up. 

He was sure that the school looked the same as it always had, no doubt. The outside wasn’t what bothered him about it, rather what happened inside when he’d been there. Aside from the biggest reason why he hated it (see: complete and unapologetic public humiliation and embarrassment) another contributing factor was the memory of how unpopular he’d been. 

Since he and Scott were a bit more on the nerdy side ( due to Scott’s asthmatic wheezing and Stiles propensity to be hyperactive because of his ADHD) they’d quickly became subjects of ridicule, prone to attract the attention of bullies and jocks everywhere. So yeah, he wasn’t too pumped to see his old “stomping ground.” 

In fact; he’d be trying his hardest to avoid that school altogether, no need to visit the only place that caused him the most pain in the world. Well, except for . . . that other place.

He’d only just pulled into his dad’s driveway before his dad was already out on the porch; arms crossed and a smile already spreading on his weathered face.

Stiles immediately felt grateful that he’d acquiesced to his father’s request; the familiar sight of him left Stiles with an immediate spread of warmth to his heart. He dropped his bags and walked over to his dad to give him a hug right away. The memorable fit of his dad’s arms around him combined with the old cologne he’d been wearing that Stiles gave him every Christmas was all the signal he needed to stay home.

They stood like that, hugging fiercely, for a couple minutes before his dad cleared his throat and Stiles pulled back to see him hurriedly wiping away tears with the back of his cuff. Stiles gave a watery chuckle and slugged him on the shoulder while wiping away his own tears and saying, “Jesus, us Stilinski men need to toughen up.”

His dad laughed in response good-naturedly and walked pat him to pick up the bags still on the ground. “That’s what happens when you don’t visit in years, kiddo. You got any more bags?”  
Stiles ignored the first part of his comment and instead nodded his head. “Yeah, I’ve got one more in the back. You can put those two up while I get it; it’s pretty heavy.”

His dad just nodded and turned to go back into the house, whistling a random tune as he bounded up the porch steps and disappearing into Stiles’ childhood home.

Stiles walked around to the back of the car and popped it open, readying himself for the last bag. He’d had it all the way in his hands and had just gotten it all the way out of the car when he felt someone put their hands on his shoulders from behind.

His heart nearly stopped and he immediately dropped the bag, which landed on his feet hard. “Fuck!” he cursed, pulling his feet out from under, only to lose his balance and fall over backwards onto his butt in the gravel of the driveway.

When he looked up to see who had put their hands around him he was immediately greeted by the unmistakable flop of brown curls and a warm tanned face grinning back down at him.  
“Scotty!” he yelled before bounding back up and using Scott as an anchor as he threw his arms around him in some semblance of a sloppy hug. Scott just laughed right back and wrapped his arms around Stiles in response.

“Dude, you haven’t changed a bit, still falling all over your ass when you see me,” the mischievous twinkle in Scott’s eyes as he said this when they pulled back reminded Stiles of the Scott he knew in high school, the one who would stay up until five in the morning playing video games together, chugging Mountain Dew by the liter. It also reminded him of how long he truly hadn’t seen Scott, aside from Skype calls and FaceTime.

“Bro, you look exactly the same!” Stiles said honestly; Scott still had his trademark teenage haircut and the ever present boyish expression on his face.

Scott shook his head, “Man, you should see Allison, she still looks so good.” And there was the true sign Scott hadn’t changed; the fact that he couldn’t go two minutes without mentioning something about Allison.

Stiles just grinned back in response. “And where is the bride to be? She trying to avoid me?” he joked.

Scott just rolled his eyes and shoved his shoulder. “Nam man, she’s still at the Preserve. She’s got the night shift so you probably won’t see her until tomorrow.”

While Scott had stuck to his desire of being a veterinarian, Allison had done a complete 180 by becoming a park ranger for the Beacon Hills Preserve instead of an arms dealer like her parents had planned for her to be. Stiles had been surprised by the information when Scott had told him in one of the emails they’d sent back and forth to each other, but he ultimately felt happier that she was doing something like that instead of an intimidating job like her father had made it seem.

She regularly guided tours for those who wanted to see the plants and wildlife in the Preserve, but she also had to do the night shift which meant guarding the Preserve from teenage “hooligans” at night. 

Which was ironic, because when they were all in high school they regularly snuck into the Preserve to explore or drink at night. When he’d told her this over the phone she had only laughed and said back, “Well now I know where all the good hiding spots are to find them!”

He was happy that his friends were doing well, but he knew he had to ask now before his trip progressed any further. “So,” he tried making his voice casual, “How’s everyone else doing?”

Scott looked away before saying, “Well, Danny got a degree in Computer Science so he’s in SoCal for some big technical company. Lydia went to MIT to get a degree for something I don’t understand in Math; Jackson went to a State college near her for a business degree. Isaac actually teaches an English class and BHHS, Erica and Boyd tied the knot . . .” he trailed off at the flat look Stiles gave him.

“Come on, man,” he sighed, “I already know all that. You know who I’m asking about.” He fought to keep his voice steady and give off an unaffected impression. It only vaguely disguised his racing heart.

Scott just sighed and shrugged. “He took over the family business, man, he’s a landscaper now. He’s got a place still in Beacon Hills, a loft not too far from here.” 

Stiles nodded and dropped it at that. He didn’t want to put Scott in the awkward place of asking him whether he had been invited to the wedding; seeing as they all used to be friends in high school and because Beacon Hills was such a small town there was no doubt he’d been invited to the wedding.

When Scott saw that he’d no longer be interrogated he just smiled and hefted Stiles’ huge bag off the ground without any effort. “Shit, man,” Stiles’ said surprised. “You been hittin’ the gym lately?” which was strange, because Scott’s biceps didn’t look any bigger or firmer than they had before.

Scott shrugged uncomfortably and said, “Nah, it’s all those dog food bags I have to lug around the office.” He’d turned before Stiles could ask him about his weird behavior. Stiles just brushed it off as leftover tension/awkwardness from their conversation minutes earlier.

Scott beat him to the house and when Stiles caught up his dad was waiting for him downstairs while Scott was already back from dropping off his bag into his room. “You seen the muscles on this guy?” he joked to his dad, pointing at Scott, “Maybe if he was this strong in high school we would have pulled more ladies.”

His dad gave him an odd smile before looking back at Scott and saying, “Yep, seems like Scott’s been a bit more . . . powerful in the past few years.” To which Scott blushed and looked away to avoid his dad’s gaze. It was almost like Scott was abashed; maybe something his dad referenced it frequently to him?

Stiles couldn’t help but feel as if he was missing something.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t kept in contact with Scott, or any of the others for that matter. They were all friends on Facebook and regularly emailed and called each other with updates and stupid stuff they found in their everyday lives, but for some reason it felt like Stiles had missed an important event, apparently only happening in Beacon Hills. He decided to drop it though; he didn’t want to be that nosy friend who questioned his friend every five minutes.

“Anyway,” Scott said, interrupting his running thoughts, “Now we’re just waiting on Jackson and Lydia, they’re due to come in town in two days. Everyone else is here already; I’m sure we can set up a hangout or something so you can see all the old faces!” 

Stiles nodded. “Sounds good, man!” and it didn’t feel like a lie. Scott stared at him for a moment before letting a huge smile spread across his face and clapping his hands. “Well, I’ve got to head back to the clinic. I’ll text you when my shift is over, dude!” and waved them goodbye as he left

Stiles stared at the door shut behind him. “Did Scott seem a bit off to you?” he asked his dad, still staring at where Scott had left. 

His dad just clapped a hand on his back and said, “Good to have you back, son.”

**********

When he finally unpacked all his bags into his childhood room he was struck by the destructive desire to look around his old room. He hadn’t been there in years, and he was always the type of person to try to avoid the past, but sick curiosity got the better of him in no time.

He knew he’d left it mostly the same before he left and conceivably knew that his dad probably didn’t do upkeep for it on the regular. It was tidy, but that was only the outside surface.

He tried the bedside table first. Opening the single drawer on the bottom had him finding inane, everyday objects; an old Kleenex here and there, an empty water bottle, journals that had his chicken scratch handwriting scrawled in them. Upon further inspection of those he found what was mostly trigonometry and physics, something he definitely wasn’t willing to relive.

He felt a little let down that he didn’t have anything positive to remind him of high school, so he made his way over to his desk in hopes of a better prospect.

It was still the same as it was in high school, only this time with a thin layer of dust on the top. He wiped it away fondly so he could get a better look at all the stickers plastered over the top of it, covering most of the surface. Every time Stiles had discovered a new band he liked he had ordered about a dozen of their stickers online so he could stick them to his desk, one of the only places that got his full attention when he was in school.

As he ran his hands over the stickers he was struck with the memories of most of them; concerts that he had attended with Scott or with his friend group. Some of the bands reminded him of how much he loved them in high school, the people he’d shared them with. Of course, thinking of some of those people left him with a sour taste in his mouth, but that would be a bitter rehash if he’d ever heard one.

Come to think of it, this was the most he’d ever thought about him in years. Except, that would probably be a lie if he said it out loud. In fact, he thought about him almost every day, just a dull undercurrent thought that almost always kept buzzing at the back of his skull. The only difference between now and then was the fact that Beacon Hills forced him to bring all of his ugly, resentful thoughts brimming to the surface.

He went to open the top desk drawer and had to clap his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Yeah, that was all the confirmation he needed to know that his dad definitely hadn’t gone into his room: stuffed haphazardly into the top drawer was a bottle of lube and three magazines with half-naked men on the cover. 

He almost stared in awe at the bravery of his younger self to keep these in such an easily accessible location. He picked up one of them and flipped through the well-worn pages to try to remember any of the men. After five minutes of the same burly men he finally put the magazine back with the others, making sure this time to shove them to the back so they weren’t as seen easily.

He pulled open the next drawer to the right, finding old school supplies. It was mostly worn-down folders with dicks drawn on them (courtesy of Scott) a couple tattered notebooks here and there, and a collection of extremely dried out highlighters. He was disappointed that it didn’t reveal anything more than his bedside drawer had.

He was almost feeling discouraged before he opened the last drawer.

Immediately his heart ached. In the drawer were dozens of mix-CD’s, something he’d almost forgotten about. Without delay he was reminded of what exactly was in this drawer, and before he could think he dug his hand into the pile to pull out the photo album he knew was at the bottom.

He knew the contents of the album; there were rare photos of him mom in there, a couple of full family portraits along with some after her death, and a conglomeration of pictures of him with his friends. He didn’t feel like flipping through the well-known photographs anymore.

He shoved it back into the bottom of the drawer and decided that he needed to fold his t-shirts.

**********

A few hours later left Stiles driving to the nearest Tom Thumb to pick up actual food instead of the fatty crap his dad had stocked in the fridge. Stiles had taken one look at the contents inside before raiding the pantry only to find the same type of items brazenly stood there: unhealthy almost junk food quality snacks that would make his dad’s cardiologist shake his head in disgust.

So his father sourly handed him his own membership card and grumbled that Stiles was, “taking this way too far,” and, “being an ass,” but after one threat of making a doctor’s appointment had shoved him out of the house.

So Stiles had the radio turned onto the alternative rock one he’d favored in high school, nervously drumming along to the beat of one of the songs playing.   
In all honesty, he was a bit nervous. He’d completely forgotten that this was the first time he’d really been in Beacon Hills in eight years. In a town as small as Beacon Hills that meant that he was bound   
to get apprehended a minimum of fifty times in places such as the local Tom Thumb about what he’d been doing all these years, why he was back, what was going on in his life currently, etc.  
It made him more nervous than he’d like to admit; if only for the fact that there were certain . . . people he was trying to avoid. Well, more like a person, but that was semantics. Suddenly he didn’t feel so motivated to buy produce.

He half-heartedly reached for his stress ball before clutching it in his hand and feeling some of his stress leech out of him. He parked the car in the parking lot and headed out, with only his wallet in his pocket and his stress ball still squeezed between his fingers.

The Tom Thumb of Beacon Hills was still the same as he’d left it. It looked like everything was still in remotely in the same place; only a couple new advertisements were at the front of the store.  
He picked up a shopping cart and started in the general direction of the produce before he heard a voice squeal behind him. “Stiles!” Called the voice of the Ms. Summers, the lady he used to mow lawns for. When he turned around he was engulfed in a bone crushing hug. “Hey Ms. Summers,” he wheezed out.

She let him go and leaned back to get a good look at him. She tsked whiled saying, “You’re still skin and bones, young man! How many times have I told you start eating more?” Ms. Summers looked the same as when he’d left her, too. She was still average height with a curly poof of white hair and coke bottle glasses that only seemed to emphasize the bug-like quality of her already slightly larger than average eyes. She was dressed in a flowery summer dress with a knit cardigan over that he had no doubt about her crocheting herself.

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly while laughing and saying, “Yeah, I know, I’m working on it.” So many a time had he come inside from mowing her lawn and she had about five sandwiches waiting for him on the counter, insisting he tell her if he wanted seconds. 

\She just smiled and shook her head. “You must be in town for Scott’s wedding! Should I expect to see a date with you?” while she had only the best intentions as she asked her question, he couldn’t help but bristle up the slightest at the mention of a “date.” 

“Um, no.” he gave, lamely, “Just a single pringle ready to mingle,” he tried to give her an easygoing grin but he could tell she saw right through it. “Well, that’s nice.” She gave awkwardly before stepping back and looking a bit flustered. Stiles suddenly felt like a dick for obviously making her feel bad about just a slip up.

“No biggie! I’ll catch you later!” he gave an actual genuine grin this time and Ms. Summers seemed to understand, giving back her own small grin and walking away.

Immediately Stiles felt drained. If this was what he was supposed to expect every time he saw old acquaintances in public places he was going to have to work on his people skills, or at least the skills that prevented him from bringing up old painful events.

He made his way back over to the produce section, trying to subtly hide his face every time he heard someone walk past him. He chose a bunch of fruits and vegetables he knew would only make his dad scrunch up his nose when he got home.

He had been making his way over to the meat aisle to get a pick of the cuts with the least fat on them when he heard a voice clear behind him. He braced himself for another excited old lady before he turned around.

And then promptly dropped the steak in his hands.

Standing there in a clingy leather jacket was none other than Laura Hale. Her eyebrows almost reached her hairline, how much she raised them up. “Stiles Stilinski?” She asked, sounding as shocked as he felt. “So the rumors are true, you came back in town for Scott’s wedding.” She still sounded surprised, as if he would have skipped his own best friend’s wedding.

He couldn’t muster anything to say. Somehow he’d completely forgotten that he would probably see the rest of the Hales when he spent his time back up in Beacon Hills. He was at a complete loss of what to say, something he never usually had an issue with.

She looked the same; she had the trademark Hale looks with the dark hair and light eyes. She looked different than the last moment he’d seen her, though, her mouth not twisted into an ugly frown and her eyes not as angry and stormy as their last confrontation. She’d been one of the last people he’d seen before he high-tailed in out of there; she’d been one of the last to try to erase the events of what had just happened.

She’d come making excuses for him, pleading Stiles to understand “what he didn’t know” maybe if she had done it more than a couple days afterwards he would have listened, but she hadn’t waited. After she had said her spiel he had blown up right back; angry, fat tears rolling down his face as he shouted back ugly things. 

He had still been in a fragile place, then. Everything he did felt like some sort of out-of-body experience, the way he either would completely shut down everyone or he violently explode; tearing them down within minutes. Of course, most of the Beacon Hills population had known what happened, so they either let him cool off or didn’t get offended when he responded badly to them.

But here Laura was again, trying to start some semblance of a conversation with him. He longed to have the first word so he could steer and control the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go; short and simple. He was just gearing up to say false pleasantries.

But Laura beat him to the punch, asking him, “So how are you doing?” immediately he narrowed his eyes. Even if she didn’t mean it as a hurtful question it still put him completely on edge, unsure of how to gauge the situation. Aside from that, he also felt a stab in his heart and a lump in his throat. She had no right to treat him as a fragile object, when she had been one of the one’s to put him in that position. He immediately rose to his defensive position.

“Perfectly fine,” he almost spat, surprised at the venom in his own tone, “You can tell the rest of your family that.” He knew he didn’t have to clarify what specific members she should tell it to, but he was past having a long, civil conversation. Not with the girl who had stood by and let him get humiliated all those years ago.

Laura, in her defense, did look a bit ashamed at that and was about to open her mouth again (probably to ask another unintentional hurtful question) before he cut her off and said, “Sorry, but I’m in kind of a hurry.” And with that he brushed past her and pulled his cart away, forgetting about the steak on the floor. He didn’t have to look back to know that she probably had a disappointed look on her face. Or, maybe she didn’t, he didn’t truly know her like he thought he used to.

He walked all the way across the store before turning down into a random aisle and sitting down on the floor with his head between his arms, perched on his drawn up knees.  
“Fuck.” He swore miserably, he could feel the beginnings of tears at his eyes. He felt even worse that he was having such a fierce physical reaction to it, and in such a public place. He also felt a bit embarrassed to have snapped so viscously at Laura; partly because it was extremely rude, and another part because he was truly showing her how not okay he was. It just felt wrong thinking how much of their history together had to be forgotten.

And now he was having an anxiety attack in the middle of the frozen meals section; something he hadn’t had since he’d left for college. Beacon Hills just had this way of bringing back painful things that he’d rather not explore. It was his first day in town and he had already had a nervous breakdown in the grocery store. Great.

Not only that, but it had been caused by someone who used to be one of his good friends. It was no doubt who Laura had sided with during that period of time, but the sad part was that Stiles still had good, unforgettable memories of her. She had always been that older, cooler girl who made him feel invincible. She was also the older sister of the guy he had been in love with, and she always stood up for him. Except for when it really counted. Then, she was just another face he tried to forget.

And throughout all of his efforts to erase certain people from his life, she was one of the ones he’s had the most trouble with. She was one of the only people who could effectively counter his sarcasm (along with Lydia, of course) and she was also one of the only people who could really see past him. Past his walls.

So that was where his true fear came in: no doubt when Laura would get home and tell her family that Stiles was back in town she could easily tell them how not-together he was, a nervous wreck who had a breakdown after a mere conversation (a small part of him hoped that they’d maybe feel responsible, maybe a bit ashamed, but he wasn’t going to kid himself.) 

Word would get out to his dad by the time that he’d get home that he was seen talking to Laura Hale; whenever Beacon Hills got a hold of even barely decent gossip it spread like wildfire across town with almost every citizen in touch with the current events of it. And with something as juicy as Stiles talking to a Hale . . . well that would just be too good to pass on, loyalties be damned.

So before he could start any more gossip (being caught freaking out after said conversation would be even juicier) he took in a big breath and stood up, steadying his hands on the cart. In his peripheral he caught sight of a dark jacket, but when he snapped his head to look it was gone. Now he was imagining things, just making it harder for himself.

He pushed the cart to the checkout and grunted a hello to the cashier, not in the mood to start conversation. She scanned his items quickly and the second he was able to go he bolted out of there; only carrying the two plastic bags filled with the fruits he’d purchased.

It was dark by the time he got outside, and he’d forgotten where he’d parked his jeep, another new low for him today. He had to search for it for a couple minutes, feeling uneasy.   
For some reason he felt that he was wrong to have written off Beacon Hills earlier. It had changed. There was this . . . electricity in the air that he didn’t know how to explain. It looked all the same, but it felt so much more different than what he remembered. It felt more dangerous. He wondered how long after he left had it changed, whether anyone else had noticed.

It was almost like Beacon Hills felt intimidating, almost dangerous. While he was searching for his jeep he felt nervous, and not the nerves he had been feeling before. The parking lot was almost empty, but it felt like someone was watching him. Knowing Beacon Hills it was probably some old granny who was trying to remember if she had seen him before, but when he told himself that it felt like a lie.  
He had left his phone at home to charge, so he knew in case of an emergency he wouldn’t be able to call anyone, which unnerved him further. 

When he finally located his jeep he threw open the doors of the backseat, throwing the food in quickly but gently (so as not to bruise anything.) The whole time he was doing it he felt eyes on his back, and so he did it as fast as he could so he could finally leave there and go back home where his dad was the Sheriff and had at least three guns at their house.

He turned the key into the ignition and started the car, tying to get out the place as quick as he could. He still couldn’t shake that feeling of being watched, though, and kept the radio on full blast the   
whole ride home so he wouldn’t have to stew in silence where he knew he would only psyche himself out further.

That experience combined with the weird one with his dad and Scott made him feel troubled, it just felt like there was some undercurrent of something huge going on and he wasn’t invited in on the information.

But that couldn’t make any sense, right? There was no way that Scott and his dad were hiding some big secret for him, and there was no way that he’d gained a stalker in Beacon Hills in the short four hours he’d been back. The conversation with Laura had just left him off kilter; he was just blowing things out of proportion.

He got ready to go to sleep in his childhood room that night, still feeling a little bit crazed, he tried to lay down facing the window, but found that to be too eerie and made to move.  
After he’d flipped over with his back to the window he still felt a bit of discomfort, something in his gut was forcing him to keep his eyes open, and his ears picked up every and any little noise and creak within the house. He could feel beads of sweat perspire at the crown of his head, and he angrily sat up in the middle of his sheets to wipe them away.

He got out of the bed and tried pacing around the room to wear him out, but had to quit quickly because of the recollection of how much he did it in high school, when he had too much energy to burn. He sat on the edge of his bed and tried to take deep breaths in and out to expel some of the liveliness that still reached beyond his bones. His mind felt like it was thrumming.

He pushed himself off the plush of his sheets and walked back to his desk. The lights were still off, and while it put him on edge he just couldn’t bring himself to turn them back on. It was like his body was moving against his own will. 

He sat down in the desk chair and immediately put his hand on the smooth metal of the second drawer on the right, already knowing what he was looking for. He yanked open the drawer and sifted through the CD’s, looking for a specific one.

At last he found it; it was one of the only ones in an actual case. It had a blank face, except for the untidy scrawl on the cover reading, “This is the first song for your mix tape, and its short just like your temper.” 

The title of the CD was an inside joke between him and the person who made it for him. It was lyrics from one of his favorite Brand New songs, one of the bands whose stickers were plastered to his desk. He just wanted to see if it was still in the drawer.

It had been one of his favorite mix-CD’s, one that he would pop into his stereo and lay back on his bed to listen to it for hours. He was pretty sure that his stereo nowadays was either thrown out or collecting dust in the garage, but it’s not like he had the intention of listening to it anyways. He was just wondering if it still looked the same, having done a drastic change of being always played to   
never being played again.

He flipped it over to the reflective side, staring at his face in the multicolored surface. He tilted it a little bit, if he looked just right he could see the back of his room . . . he jumped, his heart racing.  
He spun around in his chair and had his mouth open to scream as he wheeled around to see his window. 

All he saw was the oak tree outside, a sight that immensely calmed him and caused him to clutch his heart to slow down the heart palpitations he was having. He was still in shock at what he thought he saw, his mind was still whirring all over the place.

When he’d held up the CD he had seen someone in his window.

Not in the way that they were sneaking in (because he obviously would have heard that) but just someone sitting on the tree and staring at him.

It had scared the hell out of him, such a freaky sight. He half didn’t want to go check under his window to see if there was actually someone there, but he knew if he didn’t it would bug him the rest of the night.

So he timidly walked his way over, when he reached the window he creaked it open all the way until he could fit his torso through it. He leaned over and peered out the window, letting the cool air refresh his face. 

As far as he could tell there wasn’t anyone near his house and even if there was someone there was no way they would be able to survive a fall from that tree.

He shut the window, feeling oddly put out still. He drew the blinds and crawled back into his bed, trying to leech warmth from the sheets.

The last thing he thought of was the old CD on his desk, and whose face he’d seen in the window.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to clarify- this is an AU where the Hales are all still alive. Also, Derek is about Stiles and Scott's age, so he's around 26 at this point (he was in the same grade as them) I didn't know if that was clear earlier, so just wanted to make sure everyone knew what was going on!

When Stiles awoke the next morning he almost thought he was having a nightmare before coming to the realization that he actually _was_ in Beacon Hills and not just some terrible dream. He scrubbed a hand over his face as he thought about the previous nights events; getting hit with a good dose of embarrassment as he remembered his freak out.

He glanced at his window, wondering how he ever could have thought that someone would be able to climb up toward it, let alone hold themselves up long enough for Stiles to see them there. He just chalked it up to the residual weird-ness he had felt earlier yesterday with his encounter with Laura Hale.

Stiles stretched out his arms in front of him, giving a tiny pleasured sound as the joints creaked and cracked. He got out of bed to get dressed and start the day. Scott had said yesterday something about Allison being able to see him today, so he took his phone off his charger and shot off a quick text to ask Scott what the plans were today.

Stiles was actually pretty excited to see Allison. In the beginning when Scott first started dating her Stiles usually only talked to her out of necessity, but after a while he got to see how awesome she was and in no time they all became a trio. Allison gave the right amount of girlish-ness to balance out the gross boyish-ness of them, but she was also the fierce force that they needed (seeing as nine times out of ten they were deathly afraid of confrontation.)

Amidst all the confusion last night he had skipped his evening shower, so he opted for a morning one instead. He got all his clothes ready and headed to the bathroom that connected his room and the guest rooms. When he walked in he thought it looked the same as before, except there seemed to be a couple of odd placements of items and additions. Confused, Stiles peered into the shower, only to find two bottles of men’s 2-in-1 hair wash and a washcloth hanging from the nozzle.

He tentatively found that the washcloth was sopping wet, obviously been used recently along with the wetness of the nozzle that definitely contributed to it. He furrowed his brow, unsure of what to make of it.

Next he looked over to the counter, where a men’s razor also laid. It was plugged into the wall, charging, and the short black hairs stuck to the blades and on the counter signified that it too had been recently used.

He rubbed the bottom of his face subconsciously as he thought about who it could. It probably wasn’t his dad, because he had lighter hair that definitely wasn’t this dark when it got shaved (and Stiles knew this for a fact, he had inherited it from his dad) but if it wasn’t him, then who could it be? The question bugged him. He never liked leaving anything unknown. When he was a kid he absolutely devoured mystery books and loved helping his father with some of the easier cases, he always loved putting together the pieces of the puzzle, no matter how difficult.

But this was different than a simple murder mystery book, this was real life. This was small hints, giveaways, that something was not right in Beacon Hills, and that thought frightened him a bit.

Had Beacon Hills always been this mystifying? Or had it changed after he left? In his mind Beacon Hills was far from what he would consider interesting, yet here it was getting him interested.

He turned the knob; letting the warm water kick in before he would step in. He stared at the contents he had found in the shower, noting almost right away that the washcloth hanging immediately resoaked- so he was comforted by the quick thought that said no one had used it last night without his knowing. The question still remained as to how it got there, but it also helped to reassure him of not actually seeing that face in the window last night.

Once he got in he precariously placed his own shower essentials next to the mystery objects and decided to put it out of his mind until after he went out with Scott.

Once he was out of the shower he changed into some of his old clothes (it was slightly disappointing to see they still fit- apparently he _didn’t_ get buffer over time) and checked his phone to see three missed texts from Scott. They read:

_yeah dude we wanna hang_

The next one:

_yooooo lets meet at that diner we used 2 pregame at, lets do noon_

And the last:

_also i invited others cuz they wanna c u 2_

Stiles snorted at the fact that Scott still texted like an eighth grade girl and quickly texted back an “okay” before heading downstairs for breakfast.

When he made it into the kitchen his dad was already in uniform and reading a paper over his bowl of raisin bran cereal (one that Stiles had to pull from the back of the pantry and shove it in the sheriff’s face) and made his own bowl before sitting down across from him.

He was staring at his father analytically; trying to think of a casual way to bring up the shampoo and razor before his dad finally sighed and set down the paper. “Yes son?” he asked, already sounding exasperated.

Stiles raised his eyebrows, “I didn’t say anything!” he protested. His dad just rolled his eyes heavenwards before stating, “You were staring at me pretty hard, kid, and I know it’s not ‘cause of my rugged good looks.”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably in his seat before deciding to just go for it. “Has anyone been using the shower upstairs?”

Immediately he saw his dad tense. It was only for a second and it was a small movement, but he still caught the stillness in his posture. He cleared his throat before he asked Stiles, “What stuff in the shower?” the forced calmness in his tone bit away at Stiles.

“The shampoo? The recently used razor?” he purposefully left out the washcloth bit to test his dad; see if he would bring it up before Stiles did.

His dad didn’t give a clear reaction to his words, instead giving a vague nod. A moment of silence passed, to which lifted his eyebrows in a clear question.

“Well,” his dad started, looking uneasy. “You see . . . I think with all the wedding dramas going on Scott and Allison have been fighting a bit. Sometimes to give her space Scott comes back here to cool off; spend the night once in a while just to have a break.”

The explanation shocked Stiles. In all the years he had seen them he’d never seen them disagree, let alone have a fight that drove Scott to the Stilinski residence. It shocked him that it had gotten that bad. Immediately he felt bad for prying into someone else’s business, just because they had used his childhood bathroom.

His dad must have seen how uneasy Stiles had gotten because he waved his hand in his direction. “Don’t worry about it, son. They’ve sorted it all out now; you don’t have to worry about him popping by while you’re here.” He stopped for a second before adding forcefully, “Don’t even mention it to him.”

Stiles nodded in agreement, but he knew when they would meet up today he would pull Scott aside and ask him if he was truly alright. Scott usually didn’t take these things lightly and could hold in his emotions forever; he’d have to make sure Scott knew he had his support. Maybe he’d pull aside Allison too; just to be sure he covered all bases.

It just bugged him how much Beacon Hills had shifted while he left; it’s not like he thought that the world revolved around him but it wasn’t comforting to know that one of the most static forces in his life was becoming more and more dynamic by the second.

It unnerved him, to say the least that it seemed to shift under his feet at every step he took. His dad, still looking at Stiles critically asked, “Is everything alright, bub?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah. Guess I just kinda expected everything to be the same as I’d left it.”

His dad didn’t flinch, per say, but he did start a little at the end of his answer. “Well, son, a lot has changed. And sometimes it’s for the best if you don’t look into every little thing that is different, might keep you out of trouble and do you some good.”

Stiles felt slapped by his father’s statement. It’s not like he was intentionally being rude, it just made Stiles feel like he was a kid and being scolded again. His dad said nothing more, just folded up his newspaper and put his bowl in the sink. He left without saying anything, and Stiles knew his shift would end late at night.

He slowly ate the rest of his cereal, thinking over his father’s words, and decided that while he still would say something to Scott he would offer up his complete loyalty so he wouldn’t offend him. He left it at that; but couldn’t help feeling a bit of a sour taste in his mouth at what his father had told him.

********

Stiles passed the time until noon pittering away on his laptop, trying to come up with a good story idea but failing. Whenever he had a burst of inspiration he could be typing for hours, but lately it felt like he had exhausted most of his imagination and was writing all the same types of boring, predictable characters.

His two books had put him in a pretty good place, financially, but it wasn’t so much the money as the notoriety he craved. He wanted to be a well-known author, one that wrote books that touched everyone who read them. He wanted to write the kind of material that inspired others to write, and lately it felt like even his best work was falling completely short of the standard he had set.

That took up almost all his time, and he had reached over to click on his phone when he saw it was already 11:47, so he immediately logged off to get his wallet and keys while trying to yank on his shoes as quick as he could.

He ran out to his Jeep and immediately started her, coaxing her through it (Betty was getting old and it was getting more and more hard to get her going) and immediately set off to the diner Scott had mentioned.

Usually before lacrosse games in school they’d head over to get a quick drink and then come back right afterwards and either celebrate their win or drown their sorrows of loss by stuffing their faces full of the signature cheese curly fries. It was a comforting place to Stiles, having only good memories there.

When he was younger he and his parents would go there once in a while and Stiles’ mom would always get the fattest, greasiest looking BLT imaginable and he would remember looking on in awe as she would finish every bite, leaving only a couple crumbs here and there.

When he pulled up to the diner he saw a horde of unfamiliar cars, and then figured it was probably everyone else’s cars, because Scott did say he was inviting “others.”

He parked his car and locked it, walking up the steps to Sally’s Diner and when he walked in he was immediately greeted by the delicious smell of diner food and the cheerful yells of his old friend group as they saw him.

Three steps into the restaurant he was enveloped in a very tight hug by Allison, with the others waiting behind her. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac each had their own turns hugging him, ending with Scott who wanted a hug because “I don’t know, it looked like fun,” coupled with the McCall Puppy Stare.

They all sat around one of the huge booth tables and ordered their food. True to her memory, Stiles ordered the grossest, most diabetes-inducing BLT he could spot on the menu. The only people missing from the group were Lydia and Jackson, who were due in town sometime tomorrow.

“So Stilinski,” Erica called across the table, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Word on the street is that you’re a bestselling author.”

The tips of his ears burned. “No,” he said, embarrassed, “They’re subpar, nothing amazing.”

Allison swatted him on the shoulder while looking incredulous. “No way! I could never write that good in a million years!”

“Well,” Stiles corrected absentmindedly. “Jesus, Allison, Scott sure is rubbing off on you,” he joked.

“Hey!” Scott protested, “That’s not fair, you were always better at English.”

Allison patted his arm comfortingly, “It’s okay, sweetie, the asthma was cute in high school.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and turned to the rest of the group. “So what is everyone up to right now?”

Erica held up her hand, “You missed my wedding, jackass, and I’m going to kick your ass for it.”

“That’s what’s up.” Boyd intoned from her side thoughtfully.

Stiles held up his hands in defense, “Hey, you guys didn’t tell me until last minute! And you got married during college, what was I supposed to do?”

Isaac laughed, “Don’t worry, man, it was pretty small and close-knit. Really only P-family was invited.”

Erica cut in, “Really Stiles, it’s alright. You’ll just have to make it up to me by writing me as a warrior princess in your next masterpiece.”

From then on the conversation took off. He found it easy to lapse back into the old days again, teasing everyone and cracking bad jokes that had the whole table groaning in shame. Talking in person was way different than talking over the phone and he was suddenly really grateful to his dad for convincing him to stay back here for a bit.

Finally, Stiles couldn’t hold it anymore and excused himself to the restroom. Out of politeness he had refrained, but with the lull in conversation he decided it was an acceptable time to go. The bathroom’s in Sally’s weren’t that nice, and they were located through a hallway that was closed off which meant that if he needed to take a breather of some sort he’d be perfectly able to without any of them noticing.

It wasn’t that he needed a break from them, just that over the years he was mostly used to his own company so talking to big groups kind of overwhelmed him enough to make him in want of a “break” to say. Not to say he didn’t have friends in SoCal, just that they were more like acquaintances that he didn’t spend every moment of free time with. Also, being a writer made him have an off kilter schedule that kept him up late at night and asleep most of the day, so he wasn’t really in the best position to be making plans or attending them.

When he finished up his business and washed his hands he looked at himself in the mirror for a bit, prepping himself, before finally heading down the hall.

Since their table was so close to the hall he was expecting to hear some remnants of light conversation but as he stopped before the door he could hear Scott’s voice warn, “He’s in the restroom and he’ll be out soon; it won’t look good having you here.”

He couldn’t hear what the reply was, even though he strained to hear it, because whoever was speaking was speaking in low tones. Stiles had his whole ear pressed to the door, hearing Scott counter back, “I highly doubt this is the right time, Derek. Just text me later.”

Immediately Stiles reeled back, his mind going a hundred different directions at once. At the mention of Derek’s name he felt his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach. He could feel the sweat beading at the back of his neck and could hear his pulse rushing through his ears. Without even noticing at first he realized that his knees had given out and he was sat on the floor of the hallway.

He noted through his haze there seemed to be a lapse in the conversation, a silence so tangible that even he held his breath so as not to alert the others he was listening in (even though there was no chance they’d be able to hear him anyway.) He heard Derek’s short goodbye of, “remember to call,” before he heard the telltale footfalls of his departure.

After the bell had clanged, signaling Derek’s exit, a hush fell over the group as they all whispered to one another. In fact, Stiles was pretty sure that all the commotion and loud raucous yelling in the restaurant had ceased when Derek came in, not just his friend group.

He knew if he was going to analyze every bit f what just happened he’d be sitting there forever so he shoved it to the back of his mind to think about later and got up to go back outside.

At the creak of the door he saw the whole table flinch, along with guilty expressions written over everyone’s faces. He didn’t know what to do or what to say, half of him wanted to let them know he had heard almost every word, but the other half begged him to stay quiet, to wait things out. Maybe they would be up front with him and he wouldn’t even have to pretend, maybe they would say something without him asking, but he highly doubted it.

When he sat down and didn’t right away question them he noticed they all relaxed their posture. “So,” Scott started, and Stiles’ heartbeat quickened, “What about Dodgers? Has it been a rough season or what!” and Stiles felt a bit of himself deflate.

But he knew that Scott probably had his reasons (however odd or frustrating they were) and probably thought in some way he was helping Stiles by keeping what had just happened from him. After all, Stiles didn’t make a very good impression on him yesterday with his prying about Derek’s life, and it certainly showed he wasn’t over what had happened. Stiles wouldn’t blame Scott for still being friends with Derek, after all they had all been pretty tight knit in high school and it probably wasn’t as easy for Scott to just cut people out of his life like it was for Stiles, when it had seemed like a necessity.

So he kept his mouth shut about the confrontation the rest of the meal, competing in the conversation and letting himself join an outing with his friends.

They had mostly stayed the same, which was comforting. After a while, though, it became late in the afternoon and everyone either had to get back to work or in Isaac’s case, school. They petered out, Scott being one of the last ones to leave.

Before he could forget, though, he pulled Scott off to the side saying they needed to talk. It did not escape him how he started to look nervous and was almost stuttering asking why.

“Well, man,” he began, not feeling as confident, “I just wanted to know how you and Allison were doing, I guess.”

Scott looked completely surprised and caught off guard. “What?” he sputtered, “We’re fine? Like, we’re getting married . . .” he trailed off with a confused look.

Stiles put his hands on his shoulders. “You don’t have to pretend with me, man. My dad told me how you’ve been staying over at our place to cool off. It’s okay, I understand, I just wanna let you I’m here for you bro.”

Scott still looked immensely dumbfounded. “Dude I haven’t stayed at your house while you’ve been gone at all. Allison and I are doing fine, why would he say that?”

Stiles felt himself go cold. That meant his dad was lying to him this morning, and that made him so uneasy that his father felt the need to purposefully hide information from him by deception.

“I found stuff in the shower and on the counter that didn’t belong to me,” he heard himself mention blankly, “Just forget about it.”

He turned to walk away before Scott could cover his tracks and lie to him too because no doubt Scott would try to backtrack in order to save face and make him believe his dad wasn’t lying to him. It hurt to think that way, but he knew it was the truth.

He got into his jeep and shut the door as hard as he could, not sure if he was angry or saddened by the discovery of his dad’s deceit.

As he drove away he saw Scott looking concerned and running a hand through his hair as Scott spoke on the phone with someone. He thought it could have been his father, but what would that prove? That Scott was in on some kind of trick with his dad? It didn’t make sense if Scott was acting like he didn’t know what was going on at all and it left Stiles feeling more confused than ever, feeling like he couldn’t trust anyone.

It irritated him how many secrets his dad and Scott had, apparently. This combined with the incident yesterday about the whole muscles thing left him with a killer headache that refuse to go away as he kept thinking about what secrets exactly they both might be keeping from him.

That combined with Scott not telling him that he had talked to Derek was now eating away at him, too. Yeah, he may have tried to remain neutral about it before but now combined with the idea that Scott may be hiding more things from him made him incredibly distrusting of what was actually going on and who exactly to trust.

He got home to an empty house and decided that maybe he needed to do a bit more investigating than usual.

He raced upstairs to recheck his bathroom for any other clues that may give away what exactly was going on. He could hear his phone ring in the other room but he ignored it, knowing whoever it was would just distract his focus and could wait a bit.

He opened the top drawers and didn’t find much, a couple of empty bottles of shaving cream and soap packages that could have easily been left there when he was still there; they looked old enough to have been sitting there for years so it didn’t seem like there were any new additions.

The lower drawers under the sink proved to be the same type of items, ones he couldn’t pin down to a specific event but otherwise told him they’d been collecting dust for a few years too.

He felt defeated; until he had a burst of inspiration and cracked open the guest room door.

When he’d been younger, sometimes he would come into the guest room and sleep, just to have a change of location every once in a while. He’d done it a lot more in high school, and he’d bet that the same sheets on the bed were probably the ones he’d slept in all those years before. Actually, now that he thought about it: he had spent his last night in Beacon Hills in this room. He had felt so dejected and sad and angry that day that he didn’t even want to sleep in his own bed, so he had moved to the other room and hurriedly made the bed before departing.

The bed looked like it had been folded military style, probably by his dad. Except, the pillow was wrinkled badly and the sheets didn’t look as smooth as they seemed now that he was up close and looking at it with a trained eye.

In fact, everything in this room was off. Almost everything was in the right place, but there were items here and there that were inches off as if someone had moved them. And while the possibility of his dad moving them remained, that combined with the incident in the bathroom had him feeling ill at ease. The way this was all panning out . . . it’s like someone had lived here while he was gone. Someone had been sleeping in the sheets and using the bathroom, at any other time Stiles would have appreciated the simile to Goldilocks but at this moment he felt nauseous.

Was there a possibility someone was actually staying here? Or was he just building things up in his head? He needed to take a step back, maybe get some fresh air.

He walked outside to the front yard and stood for a couple of minutes, trying to get himself to calm down.

Ms. Pritchard, a lifelong neighbor, noticed him outside as she was watering her petunias and waved emphatically at him, obviously trying to get him to see her. He plastered on a fake smile and waved back half-heartedly as he tried to justify his findings in his head.

There was no way that someone had been staying at their house. It was too weird, of an idea or thought, and there was no way his dad would agree to it. Yeah, maybe he lied to him this morning, but that didn’t erase the fact that he wouldn’t tell Stiles about an actual person residing in their house while he was away . . . it just didn’t add up, didn’t make any sort of sense.

He stood there for another couple of minutes before he headed back inside, trying to forget about it.

He settled into the kitchen to get a glass of water when he looked up and out of the window and dropped his glass, vaguely hearing it shatter onto the floor.

Before he could lose his nerve he ran outside to try to see if he wasn’t crazy. Heart pounding, he ran to the back door and threw it open, only distantly aware of the sound of it hitting the other side of the wall. His feet thudded against their deck and he pushed off of hit so he could hit the ground running. He was only vaguely aware of the feeling of leaves crunching under his Converse as he tried to chase the person off.

While he’d been standing at the window he had looked outside to see a . . . man (he guessed by the build) standing in his backyard. It wouldn’t be hard to get access to; after all most of Beacon Hills backyards didn’t have fences as they faded into the forest and shrubbery behind them.

He couldn’t see whoever it was any more, and he was only a fraction into the forest anyway. He stopped himself short, putting his hands on his knees as he bent over to catch his breath. Stiles hadn’t done this much running since he was on the Lacrosse team, and even then he was second string so he didn’t get much field time.

When he finally caught his breath he straightened up and looked around the forest. Even though it was only half way through the afternoon, less light got down onto the forest floor because of the trees blocking it, so it was darker than what it was supposed to be.

Despite countless years of sneaking out into the forests with ease he felt a bit . . . scared. It was eerie; the way everything was quiet and nothing seemed to move. Conceivably he knew that if he was actually in trouble there would be a park ranger a little ways away, but he still felt vulnerable.

And if it wasn’t just a trick of the light and there was actually a man in his backyard he wasn’t exactly doing himself any favors by just sticking around and letting himself become the perfect piece of bait, so once he got collected he took off into what he thought was the direction of his house.

Except, it wasn’t.

Apparently he didn’t remember the forest like he used to, as within probably ten minutes or so he was still in the forest, probably getting even deeper.

He stuck his hand instinctively to check the time on his phone, but as he hit empty space he remembered how he had tossed it onto his bed when he had gotten home from lunch.

“Fuck,” he groaned out loud, not caring that no one could possibly hear him.

“This is why you don’t go chasing strange men into the woods,” he grumbled to himself as he half-heartedly kicked a clump of twigs near him.

It was hard to trace his steps, because everything in the forest seemed to have the ability to all look exactly the fucking same. He could feel his exasperation growing as he continued aimlessly in whatever direction he had decided. Curiously, he sucked on a finger and put it up into the air, only to feel almost no wind from any kind of direction. He’d only been in Boy Scouts for a day, so there weren’t really any other tricks up his sleeve. Even he wasn’t sure if the sun set in the East or rose in the East, and even then it wouldn’t be much of a help.

He wandered around until he caught sight of a familiar tree. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he asked aloud, “Have I actually done a full circle?” and sure enough, he had (he had remembered this tree because the knots on it made it look like the tree itself had a nasty bout of acne.)

He felt so tired and went to sit down to think it out. It was getting darker, now, and since he didn’t have any form of light on his person that meant that he would have an even harder time finding his way back home. When he inevitably died in the forest (cause of death: starvation and shame) his tombstone would read: Here lies Stiles, idiot kid who can’t navigate in the forest he’s lived next to all his fucking life.

Finally, he decided enough was enough and pushed himself onto his feet. It was seriously getting dark, and he was having trouble seeing his hands in front of him. He reverted to the last possible resort.

“Help!” he called into the darkness, “I’m lost! Is anyone here?! Help!” even to him his voice sounded booming and it echoed off the trees.

He walked around cupping his hands around his mouth, “Can somebody help me?! I’m lost!” he called out again.

He was taking a deep breath for a third time before he heard the snap of branches. “Hello?” he called, “Is anyone there?”

“Stiles?”

“Why, Jesus, why? Why do you do this to me?” Stiles pleaded up at the sky quietly, cringing as he heard the voice call again.

“Stiles? Is that you?” they called again, sounding more sure this time.

“I know I’m half-Jewish,” he whispered quietly, still talking to the sky, “But we can work something out, I still put up a tree at Christmas, did you know that?”

Peter Hale snorted. “Yep,” he could practically hear the smirk in Peter’s voice, “Definitely Stiles.”

HE turned toward the direction of Peter. “Why are you out here roaming at night?” he asked testily. “Don’t you have to, oh I don’t know, go kill an innocent puppy or something?” Peter was one of his least favorite Hale family members, on account of scaring the shit out of him every time they interacted.

“Interesting choice of words, Stiles,” Peter intoned, “Except I should ask you the same; after all, this is our property.”

“Of course it is,” Stiles complained, “Trust me to stumble in the woods long enough to end on fucking Hale property.” It felt like a cruel joke, running into all these Hale’s in the course of just two days.

“Alright, boy,” Peter sighed heavily, “Come with me.”

“Um, no thanks. I’d honestly rather wander around for the next couple hours, if it’s all the same to you.” He could navigate out of here; all he’d have to do was keep walking till he hit a street. Then he could hike back or catch a ride (with someone who wasn’t crazy) and he would have a free ticket home. It was a good plan.

He started walking away when he heard Peter call out, “I’m warning you, Stiles, there’s been a recent spike of wolves in this area.” He warned, not sounding at all concerned or troubled.

“Please,” Stiles called back, still walking away from him, “There are no wolves in California.”

As if it heard his statement, a wolf howl echoed through the trees around them, giving off the confusable air of being both near and far all at once. Stiles stilled, listening as the sound tapered off, coupled with the sound of birds scattering off the tops of nearby trees.

He turned back, facing in the direction where he could see the faint outline of Peter’s person. “Fine,” he said dully, “Just lead me to my death.” And walked over to him.

When Peter was sure he caught up he tsked quietly, saying, “Still melodramatic as ever, Stiles. Really, it’s unbecoming.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, not caring that Peter couldn’t see, “Yes, thank you for the life advice. I’ll be sure to treasure it.”

They walked on for a couple steps before a frightening thought hit Stiles. “Wait, where are you leading me?”

“The slaughterhouse,” Peter remarked in a monotonous tone.

“No, really,” Stiles stopped, getting more panicked by the second, “Where are you leading me?”

He heard Peter stop and turn around. There were a couple seconds of silence before Peter answered quietly, “Don’t worry, I’m not taking you to our house, I’m just taking you to one of the street corners.”

Stiles blushed; embarrassed that he was read so easily. “Thank you,” he said quietly, because even though most of the time Peter irritated the shit out of him, he was doing him a huge favor by helping him out when he could have just left him high and dry, wandering the forest.

The walk itself only took an uncomfortable ten or fifteen minutes of tangible silence before they reached a familiar road. “Oh hey,” Stiles said, realizing they were right at his neighborhood, “You didn’t have to do this, I could have found it off another road.”

Peter said nothing, so Stiles gave another, “Thank you.” Before walking off in the direction of his house.

He was almost out of earshot before he heard Peter say to him, “The Hales miss having you around.”

Stiles immediately stopped and tensed, feeling himself go cold. “I doubt that, but thanks,” and walked off faster, making sure that Peter wouldn’t be able to say anything else.

When he walked all the way to his driveway he could see that it was still empty, meaning his dad wasn’t home from his shift yet. That didn’t matter to him, he wasn’t ready to face him after finding out he had lied to his face in the morning. When he finally got back into his house he felt drained and tired. All of the things that happened today only added to his reservations of coming back to Beacon Hills, only solidifying all the mistrust he had whenever the name Beacon Hills came up.

He raced up the stair with whatever energy he had left and found his phone on the bed. He clicked it on to see about a million missed calls from Scott, and one from an unknown number. He figured it was a telemarketer, so he swiped them all off of his notification bar. He threw the phone onto the carpet next to him, not even bothering to plug it into the charger as he collapsed tired onto his bed.

He laid there for a couple minutes, thinking wildly about Peter and Derek. Hearing Derek’s voice was vastly different than imagining it; something he had done for years. It was low and silky and smooth and all of his dreams combined. But it was also tainted with the memories it held, the things it said. It was no longer the voice he held in his dreams, it was the one that haunted the nightmares and memories that had him sitting up in bed gasping, trying to wipe away the cold sweat.

Peter, on the other hand, never carried any pleasant memories. He was always the odd one out of the Hale family, handing cryptic and frightening comments out left and right like it was his natural born state. Whenever Stiles had visited with him he always felt on edge or something to prove. The way Peter spoke always made him feel as if everyone was in on some huge secret except for him. He would rather take Peter over Robert Hale, Laura and Derek’s father, any day though. That man just hated Stiles, and let him know it completely. Peter was at least civil to him.

It was such a stressful day, finding out all the new things that he had apparently missed from his departure. There was also something strange going on at Beacon Hills, something that only a select number of people knew, and he didn’t know if wanted to get to the bottom of it anymore.

In fact, he’d gotten into more shit in the past two days than all of his years in high school. It was like blow after inescapable blow, like trouble was following him. Or maybe he was the trouble? He had no way of knowing whether all this weirdness had started with his arrival, or before. He knew he couldn’t ask Scott (he was oblivious) or his dad (he was clearly purposefully hiding something) and the only people left he would either not want to talk to or wouldn’t get straight answers from.

He made the decision that from then on he would either try to steer clear from trouble or if he did somehow get involved he would keep it to himself. Turned out that there was really no one he could confide in, so he’d have to confide in himself. He’d have to work out this maddening puzzle without anyone’s help, and while that was a bit maddening, he was also dying to get answers. When did Beacon Hills became so strange, so threatening? He was determined to find the answer before he left in a couple months.

He also knew that he’d have to up his game if he was planning on avoiding the rest of the Hales. The rate he was going at now, he was bound to have face to face confrontation with every Hale family member by the end of next week. Anytime he even thought that they would be somewhere he’d head right out immediately, not wanting to take any risks. Yeah, it would be hard to navigate with the wedding, but he was nothing if not determined.

He rolled over so he’d be facing the window, same as the night before. Somehow, seeing the dark sky with the waxing moon did nothing to comfort him. It was a clear night, no clouds in the sky shone, and the light illuminating from the moon seemed almost ethereal- an opulent luxury he wasn’t treated to by living in the city.

Funny how he found himself almost in the exact same position, yet in a day’s work he’d uncovered more than he ever thought possible.

He felt himself slowly fade to sleep, still remembering the oddly genuine sounding statement Peter had given him earlier, “The Hales miss having you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys know what to do! seriously, every time I see anyone has commented I always get so happy and excited <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry about the late update, but I've just been busy with school stuff. This is kind of a filler chapter, but don't worry: the next one is definitely going to be longer and more action-packed! Enjoy :)

The following days proved to be unhelpful and mostly uneventful. Stiles had to get up every morning and brush his teeth, staring hard at the razor that still stood plugged into the outlet on the wall; charging as if it was gearing up for its next inevitable use. Taking showers wasn’t helpful at all either, he refused to use the sopping wash cloth and didn’t want to tamper with it, so he instead glared at it grumpily every morning as the shower re-wetted it and made it even more frighteningly obvious that it wasn’t going to go away any time soon.

In addition, it wasn’t as if he could talk it out with his dad, either. Every time he even _considered_ talking to his dad about the obvious lies, he would clam up and feel his palms gathering cold sweat.

Therefore, he instead threw himself into the distraction of planning Scott’s bachelor party. Funnily enough, he also wasn’t talking to Scott. It wasn’t that he was actively trying to ignore Scott, it was just that over the past couple of days Scott had been slightly distant, especially with the arrival of Lydia and Jackson.

If Stiles thought Scott was on edge before it was nothing compared to this. The second that they had seen Lydia and Jackson in the airport Scott had been skirting around certain topics, skipping over name and events he would normally casually slip into daily conversation. It was almost as if Scott was watching every word he said, but Stiles had a hard time fully believing it. Not that he was being rude, but Scott wasn’t exactly what one would describe a mastermind, so the fact that he was actively hiding something from _Lydia_ no less teetered on the edge of unbelievable.

Stiles had been giving Lydia space to adjust back to life in Beacon Hills, but about two days after her arrival he finally caved and asked her to go get coffee with him, to “catch up.”

He truly was looking forward to the prospect of reconvening with Lydia, but he also wanted to see if she had noticed anything off about Beacon Hills during the short time she had been there.

She of course accepted his invitation, which led him to the present and planning to meet up with her in ten minutes. He dressed smartly, knowing that any signs of disarray or messiness would completely put her off for the rest of the afternoon. Lydia was the type of girl who believed that you should dress how you want to be treated; so quality or nothing else. While he had trouble accommodating her at first, he quickly realized fail-safe outfits that would make her grumble less at his “atrocious nerd-frat” sense of style (her words, not his.)

The prospect of their meeting left him slightly breathless as he took the back roads to the nearest coffee shop. He was over his decade long, humiliating crush on her, but he was scared at the prospect that she would completely deny noticing any strange happenings as of late.

Lydia had been one of the only people he stayed connected to after his departure of Beacon Hills. Weeks after the incident he hadn’t talked to anyone except for his dad. Finally, after a while, he got over it and sucked up the courage to text Scott back. Scott had been overjoyed at the response he received from Stiles. Lydia, on the other hand, had requested an immediate Skype session to which she reamed him for almost an hour and a half. She said that there was no reason he should have dropped off the face of the earth, hiding from the people who had his back. Of course, after she simmered down, she had apologized for being “insincere” to his “stupid, but understandable” emotions. After that, he had promised to keep total contact with her, vowing to never make his previous mistake again.

The thing about Lydia was that she was able to completely tell whatever angle he was getting at; whether he hid it well or not. She always saw right through him, something that unnerved the hell out of him. If he even gave somewhat of a clue that there was a hidden meaning or unsparked curiosity behind his words she would analyze them and pry out the details within minutes. Lydia had this very . . . beautiful but frightening look about her. He’d told her this once and she had actually honest to god started tearing up and said, “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, Stilinski.” And wiped a stray tear from her face.

He arrived within minutes, a little early. Truthfully, he had done it on purpose so he could scope out seats in the section of the shop that wouldn’t allow any other onlookers or customers hear into their conversation. He walked up to the counter and gave his order to the bored looking barista at the front of the shop, his hands finally remaining idle as he handed her the wadded up bills.

He went to sit down at a non descript table in the back, right up against the window and sat down to get comfortable, anxiously bouncing his leg up as down as he apprehensively waited for Lydia’s arrival. She was one of those people who always showed up exactly to the minute discussed beforehand. She was bound to be there any second now. He heard the bell attached to the door ring and his head whipped around.

In walked Lydia Martin, illuminated by the passive light behind her in an ethereal way only she possessed the power of harnessing, passing up the shop counter to stand in front of him, arms outstretched. He acquiesced to the hug, gathering up her small, slight frame into his arms.

“Hey, Lyds,” he smiled into the shoulder of her jacket, feeling his giddiness bubble over the top.

She smacked him on the shoulder, “How many times have I told you not to call me that?” She scolded while leaning back, wiping invisible lint off his shoulders. Stiles wasn’t disheartened, though, he could see the slight upwards turn of her lip as she taunted him, signaling she was genuinely happy to see him too.

“Let me buy you a coffee,” he offered politely, even though he knew it was fruitless.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Please, I can pay for myself just fine.” Lydia was still the same; unwilling to take any form of charity or offering if she could do it herself (and probably better.)

Stiles waved a hand for her to go on while he sat himself back down. Lydia was back in under five minutes, holding a delicate looking frappe in her hands as she daintily sipped at the whipped cream at the top. “So, why did you want to meet up?”

Trust Lydia to cut straight to the chase. Stiles raised his eyebrows, trying to look affronted, “Can’t I just meet up with one of my closest friends?” It was scary how quickly she caught on to him.

She only kept a steady, undiscerning gaze. “I suppose.” She said airily, “But I also know that with every kind thought you have there are about a thousand mischievous ones to match it. Men are tedious creatures of habit so I doubt you’ve changed significantly in the past eight years.”

He sputtered, lifting his hands up weakly, only confirming her suspicions.

Lydia only indulged him with a smile, “Just spit it out already, I know that you’ve been dying to ask me something.”

That was all the go-ahead he needed. “Have you noticed anything . . . different about Beacon Hills?” He tried to beat around the bush, afraid any sort of off-putting phrases might make her reluctant to share with him.

Lydia looked caught off guard. Her eyebrows stretched up high, her mouth falling open slightly. She looked off into the middle distance calculatingly, as if running over a thought or idea in her mind. 

She hummed, still looking speculative. “Now that you mention it . . .” she trailed off. Her manicured nails drummed against the surface of the table. “Yes. There is something . . . _different_ going on in Beacon Hills. But I don’t think I would use that word.”

“What word would you use?” He asked, feeling anxiety bubble up in his stomach.

“Secretive.” She answered back surely.

Stiles leaned back in his chair, dread building up. It was one thing to think that everyone was keeping secrets from you, but to have it almost confirmed by an outside source was a whole different matter entirely. There had been some small sliver of hope left in Stiles that maybe he was just making it all up in his head, building it up to actually be nothing. It would have been more of a comfort to think that he was just paranoid. However, to have someone else feel that way, too? That was a big pill to swallow.

It also didn’t help that the person agreeing with him was Lydia. She was one of the smartest people he knew, someone so perceptive that it was no surprise she would notice all the secrets and lies within the few days she had been back.

“Why?” Lydia pushed, looking a little more intrigued, “What’s been happening?”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know,” he lied. “Just a feeling I’ve had.” For some reason the prospect of telling Lydia about all the stuff that had happened in the past few days seemed daunting, almost too unbelievable.

She stared at him analytically. Then in a measured voice she asked, “Does it have to do with the Hales?”

He felt himself flinch unconsciously. “No,” he insisted, feeling a cloud of anger pass through his head. “I don’t care at all about them.”

She gave him her patented Don’t Be an Idiot, Stiles look and pried further, “Really? You don’t wonder what they’re up to? I know you haven’t kept up with them.” Not that he’d told her that, she just was smart enough to figure it out on her own.

“So what?” he snapped. The minute his tone came out he felt guilty, not meaning to take out his own internal anger on Lydia. Truth was, he was totally and completely curious about what they’d been up to, but was too afraid to ask anyone.

“So it doesn’t completely bug you to not know why Robert Hale isn’t here anymore?” She sat back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

Stiles gaped, completely caught off guard by the passing of this new information. When had Robert left? And _why_? Not that he liked the guy, (hated him in fact), but it still made him interested. In the few short interactions he’d had with the Hales in the past week they hadn’t said anything, but then again, how could one simply slip that kind of information into everyday conversation. It was not as if Laura could have said something like, “Oh, hey Stiles. Nice to see you back, oh and my dad left!”

He knew that conceivably if you weren’t getting along with your significant other you did have the option to divorce them or split up with them, but the Hales were . . . _different._ The way he remembered Talia and Robert interacting was otherworldly, in a sense. The way that they just seemed to _fit_ together, it just seemed like the bond they shared was transcendent, it surpassed the others. Whenever he would go over to the Hale house in the past he was always struck with incredulity how much of a team they were, never without the other. They seemed like they were completely in love, so it was so wild to imagine that they would even fight, let alone split up.

“They divorced that quickly? That process takes months, and they seemed pretty happy before . . .” he trailed off, his eyebrows unconsciously knitting together amidst the initial confusion and disbelief.

Lydia shook her head, “Nope. Couple nights after you left there was just a huge argument and he vanished without a trace. Talia and the others refused to talk about it, and your dad was the one on the case to find him but he had to quit after a couple months. Couldn’t find any tracks or clues as to where he went.”

“So he just abandoned his family and disappeared?” It seemed alien to him; Robert Hale was a prejudiced asshole, but even Stiles could admit that there was nothing he put higher than his family.

Lydia didn’t look phased, “Well, to be honest, it didn’t seem like the rest of the Hales cared very much. There was so much fighting the last days he was there that they all almost looked . . . relieved that he was gone. Every time someone brought him up they would act like a burden was lifted off their shoulders.”

Somewhere deep down in his heart he could admit that he was pleased at this outcome, a lesser part of him knew though that Mr. Hale’s departure didn’t change anything in the past. Maybe it might have explained some of it, but it was too little too late to change the course of  what had happened, Derek had already made his decision and whether or not he regretted it he still made the conscious choice to do his fathers’ will.

Lydia looked a bit troubled, probably uncomfortable bringing up an obvious taboo subject. “We were going to tell you, but it happened right after you left and you kind of went AWOL.”

 “Wait, ‘we’?” he sputtered, “How many people knew about this?!”

“The whole town,” she admitted, “It was a pretty dramatic departure, and they had still been buzzing from when you left. It was a very . . . action packed week in Beacon Hills. Enough drama to last the century.”

He felt his shoulders slump. “Me coming back here probably didn’t do much good, huh?”

Lydia quirked a brow. “You’ve got it.”

“How come no one has said anything to me, then?” he asked, feeling irked. He conceivably knew that people were aware of what went down, but the whole _town?_ Jesus, it was a wonder people hadn’t stopped him in the street yet to ask how he was. Especially factoring in the facts that it was a very small town, and even Stiles could admit his situation would be considered “interesting.”

“Well,” she pulled a guilty look again, “I think we all just collectively agreed not to talk about it? It wasn’t pleasant for anyone to think about, let alone those who had actually witnessed all of  . . . _it_ in its entirety. And your dad was furious after you left, which kind of scared people into not bringing it up.”

He rubbed his forehead warily. “Great,” he moaned, “Everyone knows my business but is too afraid to say it to my face in case I have like a mental breakdown or something.”

“I mean,” Lydia hedged, “Everyone already knows how you talked to Laura in the supermarket and had a freak attack afterwards.”

He threw his hands up. “Are you shitting me?” he stammered, “Is there no such thing as privacy here?”

Lydia shrugged. “I mean, what did you expect? Any form of quality gossip in Beacon Hills is talked about for, like, ever. Especially coupled with the fact that you’ve made your ‘brave return’ and Derek hasn’t dated anyone since you left. It’s like all the perfect ingredients for a soap opera.”

Unconsciously he felt his face heat up at the mention of Derek. Every time he thought of him he felt a sharp stab of embarrassment and a little pain. It had been so long since he’d ever really confronted the name, but he forgot that part of being back in Beacon Hills meant that it had the capacity to be casually thrown around and still be considered normal.

Back at NYU, he had taken an organic chemistry course that required lab partner and of course, he had to be partnered with the only guy named Derek in that class. For the three weeks they had worked together he’d began to dread that class, hands clamming up at the prospect of having to form the name around his lips. He had obviously made a horrible impression on the guy, always looking like he was about to shit his pants any time he addressed him. The final day he turned in his project with their names on it he could finally breathe the fresh air of relief and promptly moved his seat as far away from that Derek as he could.

Of course, he shouldn’t have expected everyone to tiptoe around the name over here; after all Derek was the one who stayed while Stiles left. It made sense that the town had forgiven Derek for what he’d done; in fact, they probably all resented Stiles for leaving. That kind of thought made him squirm uncomfortably in his seat, thinking about how maybe he would be considered the outsider. Never in his life had he felt so alone in the same town he grew up in.

Lydia took notice of his discomfort and reassured him, “Of course, no one blames you for leaving. And everyone is thrilled that you’re back.” The words did little to comfort him, feeling empty.

“Are you sure?” he found himself asking, “It doesn’t feel like it. I mean, I was the one who up and left without saying any proper goodbye’s, never coming back until almost a decade later.” He absentmindedly chewed on his thumbnail, thinking it over.

Lydia placed her carefully manicured hand over his free hand on the table. “Stiles, no one hates you or resents you. We all knew what happened; we all understand that you had to leave. Anyone would have had to leave, too.”

He looked up at her. “You don’t think I’m a coward?” he asked in a small voice, afraid of her answer.

She shook her head firmly. “No, you did what was the best for you and I admire that. You decided not to take the bullshit that happened to you, so you just left. In my eyes that is a ridiculously brave thing to do. Now quit doubting yourself before we both end up crying and I ruin my makeup.”

He gave her a half-smile, cheered up by her reassurances. She was right, after what had gone down no normal person could be expected to stay in the place that had caused them so much pan and bad memories. Any sane person would take themselves out of the situation immediately, no matter what or whom they were leaving behind.

Of course, when he’d made that decision it didn’t feel as easy at the time, but over the course of a couple months he had finally found peace with his decision. It felt good going to a town where no one knew you, and you could reinvent yourself without giving away your past.

Lydia leaned forward, “Now let’s get back to the real topic: what do you think is happening in Beacon Hills?”

He picked at his nails, “Just . . . I don’t know. It feels like everyone is walking on eggshells around me. Keeping stuff from me.”

“Well honey,” he face adopted a concerned look, “I mean, they have good reason.”

“No, not just that,” He shook his head. “Just- can I tell you a secret? You can’t tell anyone, Lyds, I mean it.”

Lydia leaned forward, giving him her most serious look. “Stiles, you can trust me.”

He inhaled a shaky breath and began explaining what he had found in the bathroom and his father’s obvious lie. He didn’t mention anything about the person he had been seeing; partially afraid that he had just in fact been seeing things and that could be a factor to diminish his theory. He made sure to include the facts first, not offering his opinion until she thought it over. The whole time he was sharing his story his heart fluttered unnaturally in his chest, nervous that Lydia might wave everything he said away.

Lydia, for her own part, betrayed nothing on her face, only wearing a mask of indifference that only served to make him more anxious about what he was telling her. He finally finished his findings with only minimal rambling at the end, to look at her tentatively.

She furrowed her brows and stayed silent. She opened her mouth a fraction, only to snap it shut a moment later. He could feel his hands clam up as he awaited her opinion.

She remained silent for another moment. “Lyds?” he prompted, only just stopping his voice from cracking.

She blinked, almost shaken from her thoughtful reverie. “I don’t know, Stiles,” she said dejectedly, “I honestly don’t know.” She sounded sad at the confession, as if she were almost as disappointed by the information as Stiles was.

They both sat for a couple minutes, each absorbed in their own thoughts. It did nothing to comfort Stiles to know that Lydia was just as lost as he was; in fact, it unnerved him. If one of the smartest people he knew was equally confused by this phenomenon then he knew he had little chance of solving the mystery.

He rubbed his eyes in both annoyance and resignation, already have accepted that he would never get a clear answer over the next few months.

“Don’t give up, Stiles,” Lydia insisted, having caught on to his obvious hopelessness, “We’ll think it over, we’ll find it out. I promise.”

He gave a weak smile. “Sorry for unloading all this crap on you, must be a bit overwhelming since you haven’t even been here a week.”

Lydia waved away his statement and gave a heart roll of her eyes. “Please, a good mystery beats dealing with maid of honor duties. I love Allison and all, but her family is going to annoy me to death.”

He quirked a brow. “Bride family drama?” he summed up.

Lydia snorted, “That would be an understatement. They’re all trying to plan it _their_ way and Allison thinks it’s endearing. I don’t.”

He gave a laugh, “Well, if you ever need to distract yourself, call me up. Turns out being best man isn’t so much of a walk in the park either.”

She gave him a genuine smile back. “Trust me, I will. Try not to worry yourself about this stuff over the next couple of weeks, okay? You’ll go bald.”

Instead of offering a reply, he merely grinned and stood up, offering his arms for one more goodbye hug. Lydia daintily wrapped her arms around him before leaning back and lightly smacking his face, “Make sure you eat more. You look like a skeleton.” She snarked good-naturedly.

He swatted her away, “Yeah, yeah, whatever. See you Lyds.”

And with that, they parted their separate ways, leaving the shop to walk off in the different directions of their cars in the parking lots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reading all of your comments and reviews so please keep them coming! As always kudos is also appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told you guys it'd be quick! this was honestly one of my favorite chapters to write, and this is kind of where things come to a head. alternately titled: chapter where shit goes down.

Amidst all of his snooping and “detective work” somewhere along the passage of days Stiles was reminded that he did have certain deadlines to reach with his editor, so even if he didn’t feel inspired or motivated he still had to get at least a fraction of writing done.

Physically sitting himself down at his desk in front of his laptop proved fruitless anyway; every time his hands so much as hovered over the keys and ideas he had been harvesting in his mind would immediately be cut short, leaving him to wring his hands over his lap dejectedly.

No matter how hard he tried or thought he could not find a single tangible story idea. He would pace around the room, stop for a million snack breaks, but nothing could efficiently pull him away from the looming task at hand or spark any sort of creativity in him.

After about two hours of sitting blankly at his desk, he decided to “take a break” and start his draft on his best man speech. That also proved to be difficult.

Stiles knew that he had a significant way with words, after all, when he was younger, he had an embarrassing stammer; so to stop that his mother would have him recite thousands of tongue tiers and riddles with lifted, rhyming vocabulary. She would pick him up from school and would have him recite at least three rhymes before he told her about his day, so he would be able to have his mouth loose and ready to say everything without stumbling over a word. He hadn’t stuttered in years, though, growing out of the impediment was easy once he had someone other than his parents engaging in daily conversation, and Scott was a great listener. Often enough he could get the words out now, but this stupid speech was somehow defeating him.

Maybe it was because he truly had writers block, but he felt like that was the easy way to explain out of it. Some part in him, deep down, felt like maybe it wasn’t that he couldn’t get the words down, but rather he had no words at all. Truthfully, over the past couple of days, Stiles hadn’t felt very kindly towards Scott; it was the product of mistrust and the betrayal that had him questioning their friendship and whether they were truly still best friends anymore.

Best friends didn’t lie to you, best friends weren’t in on secrets with your father, best friends didn’t try to steer you clear away from the truth. Fact of the matter was, he didn’t feel too kindly towards Scott. Honestly, combined with his father, he was having a lot of trouble trusting anyone in this town the past couple of days.

He had noticed it particularly when he and Scott had been hanging out last night (Scott had begged Stiles to come help him find a birthday present for Allison) and while they were at a shop, someone had said something . . . weird to Scott. They had been standing by one of the window displays in a brightly lit antique store where Scott had been looking over a particularly old and vintage dresser, when Stiles had looked past the window onto the moon outside.

He had said something like, “Wow, look how bright the moon is.” When he could almost _feel_ Scott visibly tense next to him. Then, to make matters even weirder, one of the shopkeepers (a little old woman) had walked up to Scott and said, “Should you be out this close?”

Scott had looked visibly startled, before nervously casting his eyes in Stiles’ direction before looking back at the lady, some sort of a significant look on his face because immediately after the old lady said, “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t know.”

She left then, turning around and disappearing back into the dark shadows of her storage room. Stiles had turned to Scott, about to joke around when Scott saw his mouth open and physically turned away. Stiles had felt the joke die on his lips.

Not long soon afterwards, Scott insisted that they leave the store, that he would just look somewhere else for his gift. Stiles had insisted on asking him what that conversation in the store was, but Scott brushed him off saying, “I don’t know,” in a tone that betrayed that he truly _did_ know.

Fed up by another obvious lie, Stiles just asked for Scott to take him home, annoyed at the outcome of the night. Scott didn’t even argue with him; just kept his mouth closed tight and drove him home in a shared stony silence.

Getting back home was not any better, either. His dad had asked how the evening went and Stiles told him about the shop encounter. He had been expecting his dad to share his confusion, but was surprised when his dad rubbed his forehead and muttered in a false voice, “Yes. How queer.”

It did nothing to appease him or stop himself from thinking he was going crazy, so he gave a short, “Goodnight.” And bounded back up the stairs, only to collapse in his bed thinking about what it all could mean.

Therefore, he sat here, pen still poised over a paper entitled, “Best Man Speech” with nothing written on it and a head full of thoughts. Nothing was making sense. He tried to run every incident in his head.

The weird thing with Scott being freakishly strong only served to curb his confusion, so he put that one in store for later. Scott’s asthma was obviously gone or had receded significantly; after all, lifting a bag that big and rushing up the stairs like that would have sent Scott into a coughing frenzy like it would have before.

He ran his thoughts over the encounter at lunch the other day. Isaac had slipped up on a word . . . he could not remember what word it might have been but it was definitely something he was going to say instead of “family.”

A sudden thought occurred to him that maybe they were in a gang, but then he thought of how his father seemed to be in on this secret, and there was no way he would allow a gang to take over and initiate all of his friends.

Moreover, that weird thing with the moon, why was it so important? He knew that his comment must have triggered it, after all before that the old lady hadn’t even made herself known, only until after he mentioned the waxing of the almost full moon.

Then, he was struck by another sick thought: a cult. If a cult was somehow able to brainwash his friends then surely it could brainwash his dad too!

He felt his heart racing as he started to piece it all together. Isaac probably was going to say cult in front of the word family, but panicked and remembered Stiles didn’t know anything about it. It would also explain the moon thing; after all, in most cults they had to worship some sort of symbol and in a town with little pollution and where you could see the moon brightly at night it all fit.

In fact, that would also explain the bathroom and guest room thing, too. After all, the cult leader probably didn’t have a real job (you know, since leading cults was not a profession) and must have needed a place to stay. His dad, being the loyal member he was, must have offered up the guest room and the bathroom in his absence so the leader could have some sort of solace. It was the perfect place for him to stay, too. After all, who would expect that the Sheriff of their town was housing some sort of a mad man? No, it would be too unbelievable to the outside eye, which made it the perfect place.

He stood up, forgetting the speech, and began pacing around his room uncontrollably. His mind was racing and he felt like he was on fire how much he was sweating and getting worked up. Now it all made sense, now he finally understood why everyone was keeping secrets from him.

He realized with a sudden thought that his dad was home today and would have to work in a little bit. Stiles wanted to catch his dad before he left; he wanted to show him the support that he had been holding out on in the previous days. He felt bad that his dad was being brainwashed right under his nose, a victim of a dangerous crime, and he had just completely snubbed him!

He raced down the stairs to find his dad watching a baseball game on the T.V. He sniffled at the sight of him, his poor innocent father having to go through all of this without any support or validation from his son.

At the sight of him, his dad stood up looking worried. “Stiles?” he asked slowly, “Is everything alright?”

Without a second of warning Stiles threw his arms around his dad’s figure, enveloping him into a tight hug. “I just wanna let you know that I love you,” he cried, “No matter what you can tell me anything, okay? I’ll always be here for you.”

He felt his dad rub his back. “Um, thank you, son.” His dad replied, “I-um. That means a lot.” He sounded like he felt guilty for something. Secretly Stiles knew that his dad was probably feeling guilty over the whole “not telling you about the cult we all joined” secret, but it was understandable. Moreover, there was no way he would blame a victim of brainwashing. He only hoped that he could get through to his dad and stop all this business before it got out of hand.

His dad rubbed his back before shimmying out of the hug. “Um, why don’t I give you some money to go get some food? I think you need it, you sound a bit hysterical.”

Stiles wiped his eyes, “But you’re about to go to work! I can’t leave you. You’ll probably be gone by the time I get home!”

His dad gave him an incredulous look before saying slowly, “It’s alright, and I think I’ll manage. Why don’t you just take some time?”

He squared back, looking at his dad concernedly. Maybe this was his way of telling Stiles not to keep asking, he could probably tell that he knew something was up.

His dad dug into his pocket and picked out a couple of wadded bills. “I think writing that book in your room has gone to your head, maybe you need a change of venue.”

He scowled. “Dad, I highly doubt now is the time to have me leave. We need to talk about things.”

His dad visibly paled. “What things?” he asked shakily.

He rubbed his dad shoulder. “Hey, don’t sweat it. Listen, I know it’s not your fault you got wrapped up in all of this. I don’t blame Scott either, or anyone else involved.”

His dad simply sputtered back in return, utterly speechless. His heart swelled for him.

“I know it’ll be hard, but you’ve got to get out of it somehow. The leader will make you do something you regret, something bad. I mean, everyone knows how bad cults are, but-“before he could finish the speech he thought his father cuffed him around the head.

“Um, ow!” he said irritably, his hand resting on his skull.

“You think I’m in a goddamn _cult?_ ” his father cried.

“Well . . . yeah!” He cried, back, still rubbing his sore head.

His dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ, Stiles. Of course I’m not in a cult, why would you think that?”

“Well!” he protested, “I mean, I figured it was something like, seeing as you’ve been keeping things from me lately,,” he finished, feeling braver.

His dad’s eyebrows rose, “Like what?”

That only fueled him on further, the fact that his father could be so presumptuous about something that obviously was important. “Oh, I don’t know,” he snapped testily, “Maybe it’s the one where you lied straight to my face about who was staying over? I asked Scott about it and he had no idea what you were talking about.”

He watched his father’s face drop, and then saw it twist to one of agitation, “How do you know he wasn’t lying to you, huh? Maybe he was . . . was . . . embarrassed or something! You don’t know what you’re getting into, Stiles!”

“Do you think I asked him straightforward?” he asked in disbelief, insulted by the little faith his dad kept in his skills at subtlety, especially when it was for things that mattered. “I asked him about having troubles with her before that and he said he had no idea why you would say what you did to me. I left before he could lie on your behalf though.”

His father just covered his eyes, looking more and more done with everything, even physically turning his body half way away from Stiles.

“Why did you lie to me?” Stiles pleaded, feeling like he was losing control of his father as each second passed. “Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?” he felt like he was twenty years younger, as if begging his dad not to be angry with him anymore.

His dad wheeled around, “You think you know what you’re talking about son, but you don’t. You need to keep your nose out of everyone’s business, it’s tough enough without you pestering me.”

His dad ended his rant looking livid, his chest heaving. He numbly thought of how much this would raises his dad’s heart rate but put the thought out of his head, shakily trying to grasp what had just been implied and yelled into his face. Stiles physically recoiled from the volume his dad’s voice took on. Never in his life had he taken that tone with Stiles, he had seen his father furious before but never directed completely at him. The only times that came close were right after his mother’s death, when his dad would twirl around the half empty glass of whiskey and say hurtful things to him that took him years to get over. He felt like some sort of a liability, a burden that only stressed people out further.

Stiles thought he was past that now, past that childish fear of his father. It took him a couple months of therapy and for his father to give it up before he was completely able to trust him again, not be scared of him.

He took another step back and took a shaky breath in, “Are you drinking again?” he asked quietly, almost baffled by how quickly the conversation had took a turn for the worst. He thought about his previous ideas and was hit with a solid wall of shame at his idiotic theories.

His dad looked wrecked, “No, no, I’m sorry Stiles-I didn’t mean to-I just . . .”

He shook his head. “No, I think I’m just going to go out for a bit. I’ll clear my head and you can just . . . go to work. Just forget this ever happened.”

“Stiles,” his dad made an aborted movement to catch his arm, “Son, I didn’t mean. . .”

He walked past him through the front door, head pounding.

He heard his father call out for him, but made no move to go back. He only had his wallet on him, no keys, so anywhere he was going had to be on foot. He cut around to the back roads, not wanting to pass by anyone who might stop him and want to talk.

He didn’t plan to walk anywhere, just going by muscle memory. He couldn’t even focus, too hysterical to stop and look where he was going. For the first time in years, he felt tears budding at the cusp of his lids and before he could stop himself, he began to cry. Once he got started he couldn’t stop it, he had to pause in the middle of the road to crouch down and collect himself, wiping his heads and scrubbing his nose.

Stiles was struck once more at how quickly and volatile the conversation has shifted; he almost wished that he had never said anything to his dad so he could have continued to live in the comforting bubble that surrounded his before when he thought all that his loved ones were hiding from him was the fact that they were in a cult, it was more enticing than the thought of this unknown factor.

His dad losing his temper was one of the scariest things he had encountered; he just couldn’t get over the shock of it all. After his dad recovered from his brief dance with alcoholism they had worked hard to cultivate a close relationship with his dad; one that involved trust and love and patience.

When his dad blew up at him he felt like an eleven-year-old kid again, felt like he was the Stiles who his dad had shoved away, only to pull back and take out his grief on. This whole trip had been a mistake, one that he regretted every moment now. Why did he ever feel obligated to come to this wedding? To be in it? Almost every moment he had been here Scott had either snubbed him or lied to him. His father was even a tougher pill to swallow; someone he unflinchingly had faith in had just betrayed him in so many ways.

He felt wronged, felt like there was no easy way out of this. He didn’t feel like staying anymore, that things were better when he wasn’t in everyone’s presence. This whole time he had been here thinking something was wrong with him when in all actuality it was the people around him.

When he had finally recovered from his almost catatonic state of wandering, he looked around where he was and found he was at the old fifties themed diner right outside of Beacon Hills he used to frequent.

Heart pounding, he walked through the door of the restaurant slowly, almost flinching when he heard the chirpy rings of the bells above him. He was only looking one place; the booth in the corner.

Almost on some sort of autopilot mode, he walked toward the booth, trying to speculate if it still looked the same.

And it did, there were the same old tatters in the striped cushions where he used to sit almost every Saturday night. There were lines carved into the plastic coating of the wooden table, most were stupid drawings but there were words. Words that he remembered to this day writing. As he slid himself into the booth he ran a thumb over the inscriptions carved onto the side of the table: _here lies all of dereks hopes and dreams,_ followed with an even messier scrawl reading, _I know stiles’ real name,_ (that one was crossed out with a thick red marker he had brought one time to purposefully mark out that sentiment.)

This had been he and Derek’s special place, the diner that they only seemed to know about. They would hang out with all of their friends, sure, but Saturday nights were reserved for a meal at the diner. They went for any meal, the food didn’t matter. At the time, the only thing that mattered for them was that they had a secret place where no one could interrupt or bug them. They had always chosen the booth in the back because they liked to be separated from everyone else, but it was also near enough to the kitchen that they would be able to smell the delicious scents wafting through the restaurant.

It felt different, sitting there after all those years. He had always chosen the side of the booth with his back to the wall (an old mentality his dad had drilled into him, “always be able to see everything and everyone around you) but it didn’t feel the same way as it did when he was a teenager. For one thing, the seat no longer provided him with the comforting familiarity, instead it only caused him to anxiously remember the past and how much had changed over the years. It hurt to think of how much he had changed from high school Stiles to a jaded, checkered version of himself.

He was struck with the memories of late nights and Derek. He could remember laughing at Derek’s horrible jokes and witty remarks, more often than not tossing fries at him from across the table. He remembered the way Derek’s eyes would crinkle up when he smiled and how his nose would slightly downturn when he laughed. He remembered the bright smiles that made him feel breathless whenever Derek gave them to him, he remembered thinking that these were the best years of his life. He had felt free in every sense of the word, unconsciously happy and without any regard for anyone else but him and Derek in those moments.

He could remember playing footsies with Derek under the table during one of their first dates, when Derek had quirked a silent brow he had blushed and looked down to sip his milkshake in embarrassment before he felt Derek’s foot calmly nudge him back under the table. He remembered the afternoons when they didn’t have much to talk about, how they would silently hold hands under the table. Then he remembered how over the course of time they would hold hands above the table. He had never noticed then how Derek’s eyes had tracked everyone around them, how he seemed to tense up when Stiles’ thumb stroked over his knuckle, or how whenever someone would pass by he would smoothly pull his hand out to scratch his face or fix his hair.

At the time he either didn’t think it was important or he just glossed over it; figuring that Derek would slowly get more comfortable with it over time, the idea of them. He never truly understood how Derek was ashamed of him, of _them,_ before Derek had spat it out to his face. It just never seemed like anything could phase him at the time, especially when they were packed into this booth.

Now he longed for those days, he wished he were as brave as he used to be then. On the other hand, maybe he wished he wasn’t as fearless; maybe if he had been shyer or more reserved he wouldn’t have fell for Derek as hard and fast as he did. Maybe his expectations would have been lowered, his trust adjusted. He had had unflinching faith in Derek beforehand, something that he never truly got back after things ended the way they did.

Now the only relationships he had accounted for were short and always ended messily. He hadn’t been with anyone he had truly _loved_ in years; Derek had been the last one for him. It was no surprise that he was fucked up for any future relationships; it’s hard to form new bonds and relations when you automatically expected the worst from your partner.

He rarely tried to meet new interests anymore, just being done with it before it even started. It all felt like he was just going through the motions; trying to recreate something that would never happen again, never happen the way he wanted to anyway.

The ringing at the front of the restaurant startled him, not even realizing that his hands were gripping the sides of the table.

In walked Derek Hale, looking stressed.

The brief glance he’d had at lunch the other day did Derek no justice whatsoever. He had grown out of those gawky limbs and the slightly bush eyebrows, instead he had bulging muscles peeking out from his Henley v-neck. Derek had grown out a beard; his face had also grown to accommodate the slightly awkward features that his old thinner face didn’t support well enough. This Derek, even though he looked worried, had stridden in with a confidence that had never been present in the old Derek. The old Derek had always walked slightly hunched over, as if there was always some weight bearing on his back.

He was struck by how . . . _beautiful_ Derek had turned out. When they were in high school he’d been pretty attractive, but in a way that was at a high school standard. This Derek was almost otherworldly handsome, the kind of handsome that dried out his mouth and sent his heart racing.

In addition, his heart sure was racing; it felt like a marching band playing in his ears to the steady tempo of the beats. The volume almost crescendoed inn his ears as he numbly watched Derek turn in his direction and stare him down. He could feel his breaths coming in short, his hands were clammy and the back of his neck was gathering sweat. It felt like a ton of iron had been dropped onto his chest, constricting every breath he took. He could feel his stomach drop, the almost painful feeling of dread as he met Derek’s gaze.

It was one of those moments where he felt disgustingly pathetic, felt like he was a little boy again. Not only had Derek waltzed into the same diner as him, but now he caught Stile staring him down.

He watched Derek take a step in his direction and felt his heart stop for a moment. All of his instincts screamed to break eye contact, get out of the booth, and even lay his head down for god’s sakes. Anything to quell the embarrassing desire to keep staring at Derek. He just hadn’t seen Derek in so long, hadn’t seen his stupidly perfect face, the broadness of his shoulders, the calloused hands he used to rub together between his palms because Derek’s hands were always warm and his were perpetually cold.

It was too much for Stiles, to be placed in the same position all those years ago. The Stiles eight years ago would have been pleased at the sight of meeting Derek in the diner, but the Stiles now could barely think past the hysterical fear that came along with seeing him.

Derek, as if encouraged by Stiles’ silence, slowly started walking forwards toward him. He felt his breaths coming out quicker and shallower, as his hands tightened their grip around the tabletop. His shoes felt like lead; it was as if he was physically unable to move his body. He didn’t hear Derek’s footsteps; he felt them; almost as if he was the linoleum Derek’s boots were thudding upon every footfall.

The buzz around them seemed to quiet down, and in his peripheral he could see the other customers pause. They didn’t know who they were, but the intensity radiating off both he and Derek must have been compelling to watch, to witness.

Finally, everything reached a peak when Derek stopped two arms length away from Stiles, which he was grateful for. Any further he would have felt closed off, trapped by the will of heartache and the memory of blind trust.

Derek cleared his throat and he jumped immediately at the sound; it was like a gunshot. He saw Derek take in a breath.

“Stiles, don’t go out tonight.”

He visibly started. His mind reeled. What?

“What?” he faltered, his voice croaking from the disuse and crying jag he had earlier. The words almost seemed to ring in his ears, repeating over and over again. That was it?

He saw Derek open his mouth again but he cut him off, “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

He could feel the pure adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. The look of surprise on Derek’s face spurred him on, influencing him to keep going. He could feel himself almost going mad with the blind rage and severe hatred that struck him within that moment.

“Not even an apology? A fucking warning?” He screamed, enjoying the way Derek started backing away marginally. He balled his fists and stepped out of the booth, panting heavily and seeing red. It was like something overtook him, something that was ugly and only wanted to hurt. He had never felt this out of control before, never felt this reckless in his life.

“How dare you!” he cried, shoving at Derek’s shoulder. He had a bit of a sick satisfaction at the way Derek stumbled back, even though Stiles could feel the slight ache in his hand where he had shoved hard muscle. Derek’s face looked dumbfounded, as if he were surprised at this outcome.

Derek held up his hands in surrender, “Stiles, I never meant-“

Stiles shoved him again, this time with both hands. “Never meant what? To embarrass me or to pretend like nothing has happened? Maybe you never meant to tell me that you didn’t give a shit about me in front of everyone?”

Every line he tacked on made Derek flinch, he looked genuinely hurt and panicked over Stiles’ statements. It only fueled him on more. “So, you ruin my life; see me for the first time in _eight goddamn years_ and you tell me to ‘not go out’?”

Derek gaped, he was speechless. Stiles could see the erratic rise and fall of his chest but he pushed away any feelings of leftover concern that had bloomed in his chest. It was then that Stiles fully noticed that everyone had gone completely silent; unabashedly and unashamedly staring at him and Derek. He felt like he was going to puke.

He pushed past Derek, clenching and unclenching his fists. He heard Derek call his name and a quick look back to the diner showed him standing in the doorway, his unmistakable silhouette against the backlight of the fluorescent lights daunting.

Without even thinking, he booked it, running straight into the forest so Derek wouldn’t be able to come after him properly.

He only stopped when his shortness of breath caused him to kneel over beside a tree and wait for the dizziness to stop and his heart to get back to normal. When he looked up, he groaned.

He threw his hands up, “Jesus fucking Christ! Can I not catch a break here?” he called into the night sky.

Immediately he was answered by a howl. He felt his heart rate pick up again, thinking of what Peter had told him the last time he was in the woods. This time it didn’t seem like Peter was to his rescue, though, and he wasn’t willing to have the next nearest Hale help him out of the woods.

He punched a tree in frustration, the bark scraping up his knuckle and causing a fresh sting that only contributed to his growing anger and fear. He took his phone out from his back pocket and looked to see that he had a bunch of missed calls from both his dad and, surprisingly, Scott.

He felt too irritated to call them, but he knew he was in trouble if he didn’t. Knowing his dad was at work he started a call to Scott to come and find him.

Distantly, he heard a ring.

He almost dropped his phone in surprise, confused as to why there was a phone ringing in the forest. He quickly pulled the phone back up to his ear, only to catch the end of a ring on the other line. Afterwards he was given Scott’s voicemail and he cursed in frustration.

He called Scott again, only to hear the sound of the phone echoing off the trees distantly once more. Heart thudding, he ended the call and pulled up his flashlight app.

“Hello?” he called timidly into the dark abyss that surrounded him, getting more and more nauseous by the second. “Is anyone there?” his voice ended in a whisper, as if he was afraid of the answer that awaited him.

There was no answer except for a piercingly loud howl that frightened him so much he fell to his knees at the sound. He clutched the part of his chest above his heart, trying to think calmly and rationally. He would have rather been in the diner at this point; that place had people, phones, and witnesses to at least confirm his untimely death.

He tried calling Scott one more time, hands shakily hovering over the call button before he pressed it, hearing that phone ring out into the undisturbed silence once more. Then, he thought something: the unknown phone ringing in the woods was coming at the exact same time that Stiles had been calling Scott. Was that Scott’s phone? Was he out here in the woods with Stiles?

“Scott?” he called out unsure, feeling more and more ridiculous by the moment. “Is that you?”

Another howl pierced the unshakable silence. He fell from his crouched position, finding himself scrambling away from the direction of the noise.

He heard a branch crack, and he almost lost his whole bladder.

He quickly stood up as quietly as he could, afraid any sound could bring either the wolf closer or whoever was out in this forest closer. Maybe it was a coincidence that phone had ringed at the same time? After all, there was no way Scott wouldn’t reveal himself to Stiles; especially when it was this deep into the forest and this late at night.

He felt himself hyperventilating, working himself into a panic attack. Through the muddiness surrounding his brain, he could tell that this would only impede any sort of escape he was planning, but he was defenseless against it.

He felt his back hit a tree and he blindly grasped at his, putting one hand around his throat as if to rip off the invisible hand choking him.

He felt his knees buckle under him and was dimly aware of the sound of twigs snapping near to him. He heard another howl and he grasped his phone, calling Scott one last time. This time, the phone rang so close to him he could see a screen light up in the distance, it seemed as if the phone were lying on top of something, something that was being lifted and carried. He could see the phone almost “floating” closer to him and he felt himself crying out of instinct.

Here, either he was going to die by the serial killer in the woods or the hungry wolf near him, there was no way out.

He started contemplating the last words he had said to everyone, the way he had stormed out on Derek. God, thinking of Derek was a mistake. He could feel the tears streaming down his face as he gasped for air, thinking of how much he wanted Derek or his dad or _someone_ to be with him now, holding his hand and talk him through everything.

It was all ending now, and with a sick thought he realized that he had maybe been in Beacon Hills for, like, a _week_ before he got killed, a thought that had him let out a strained, hysterical chuckle fueled by the madness he felt in that moment.

Distantly he heard the footsteps getting closer, before they completely stopped. He almost felt relieved until he heard a snarl, and he realized that it was not the person coming after him but the _wolf_ , which wasn’t any better than what he had anticipated.

Then, as if it were possible, it got worse. He heard the sounds of multiple feet hitting the forest floor and numbly remembered how wolves traveled in packs, how they weren’t solitary creatures. He was almost pleased by this, comforted by the small fact that if it was more than one wolf he would likely be quickly torn apart and would feel little to no pain toward the end.

He clutched his phone as if it were a lifeline; he quickly called his father’s emergency number before it was too late. The phone rang and ran, finally hitting a dead tone. He immediately pressed the “call” button again, determined to give good final words to his father. It rang endlessly for minutes before hitting the dead tone once more, and he heard the wolves approaching him.

Finally, as he was trying for the third time, they made their appearance into the small clearing bathed in light from the full moon near him.

He hit the call button for a fourth time before his dad finally picked up, and Stiles sunk in relief. “Dad,” he croaked before he could interrupt, “I want you to-to k-k-know tha-that . . .” God, it was the worst time for him to finally get his stutter back, he felt like cursing himself at his own weakness and pathetic will that he was actually screwing up the last chance he had with his dad.

“Stiles, get your words out; remember the phrases your mom used to-“his dad chided gently over the phone.

The wolves weren’t completely visible and at his throat yet, so he let himself relax for a moment and took a shaky breath in, “He thru-thrusts his f-f-fists ag-gainst the p-posts and still insi-sists he s-sees the ghosts,” He screwed his eyes shut, reciting the rhyme his mother had helped him recite the most. He was never going to find out why they were acting so weird, why Scott was so strong, what they were hiding, and the moon business- his mind cleared.

The moon. Scott’s newfound strength and disappearance of his asthma. His father and friends lying straight to his face. The moon.

“C’mon Stiles,” he heard his father’s tinny voice through the speakers of his phone off handedly, “Keep it going.”

Stiles heart stopped. “He thrusts his fists against the posts . . . and still insists he sees the ghosts. He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the . . . _ghosts._ ”

They weren’t a cult, he thought blankly to himself, but they were something like it. They followed the moon and had super strength . . .

“He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts,” he mused aloud, feeling eerily calm, “They’re not ghosts, they’re something else.” He felt himself say. He frozenly clicked the “end” button on his call and looked up to see the pack approaching him.

When they finally breached his small clearing, he could see all of them. There was the wolf in front, with the chocolate brown coat. There was the lighter brown one, followed by a dark brunette one and a shockingly blonde one trailing behind,

Except it wasn’t shocking to him, it all made sense. They were werewolves, all of them.

Then, he thought of Derek’s warning earlier: don’t go out. Derek had known it was a full moon tonight and he was trying to make sure that Stiles didn’t get himself hurt or killed. He knew that the  . . . werewolves would be out tonight, on the hunt.

That also explained why his dad was in on it; they had probably told him because a sheriff was an important asset to have on your side when you turned into a creature of the night. He felt his phone slip out of his hand and thud on the forest floor below him.

It was unbelievable, frightening, and mind-boggling. Some part of him was still in denial, but at the sight of the chocolate covered wolf walking timidly forward, he was convinced. This accounted for all of them: Scott, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica.

“He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts,” he repeated dumbly once more and promptly fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again i cannot stress enough how much i appreciate the reviews! i love getting to see your thoughts and they kind of motivate me to get the next chapter out quicker :) and kudos is always welcome too! don't be a stranger!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey . . . . so, I'm so sorry. I know it seemed like I abandoned this story, but I got so busy and pretty much forgot about it half the time- and the other half I spent putting it off. I do, however, intend to finish this story and my updates will be often. So sorry about the wait, the next chapter will be out soon!

The walk home had been a haze. He had distantly heard the wolves howling mournfully after him but since he was unafraid that they would actually hurt him, he callously brushed them off and ignored their attempts. He could hear them softly tread a distance away, paws lightly crunching the dry leaves accumulating on the ground. He considered stopping and turning to get a look at them, but the thought alone that they weren’t in a full . . . human form stopped him short.

The walk out of the forest had felt like it went forever, it was like something out of a poorly made cartoon where the main character could walk past the same poorly drawn trees three times. He had felt this strange, irrational bubble of anger fester inside him the whole way home, not dimming whatsoever until he had finally hit the motel bed hours later, letting his exhaustion settle his bones into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

He actually barely remembered walking home and getting his stuff packed up, and then driving out to the motel he had currently just woken up in. Everything from the night had felt like some kind of dream, something that happened when he wasn’t all together there. He had been on some sort of autopilot while driving, which scared him for a couple seconds before remembering that yes, he had arrived in a single piece.

He only could just recall, packing up all of his clothes and toiletries and shoving them into his duffel pack, the soundtrack in the background being his phone shrilly ringing, alternating between calls from his dad and Scott, along with beeps of text messages and the sound of his phone vibrating due to not checking it. Finally, when he had been halfway through packing he had popped his phone open and took the battery card out, finally putting them both into his back pocket.  
His dad had still been on the night shift when he had come home, but he knew it would have been an hour or so until his dad came back home. He expected that the primary reasons that his dad hadn’t come to find him already at that time was because A.) He was still acting sheriff of this town and B.) He probably trusted that Stiles would not get into any real danger as long as Scott was . . . attuned to his actions.

So here he was, sitting upright in a grimy motel bed with his head ducked between his shoulders, staring at his hands thoughtfully as they shook and the shock from last night wore off as all his thoughts crashed back to him.

Scott was a . . . werewolf. The word felt foreign to him, the idea of it seemed surreal and untrue. Scott was a creature of the night, something that you only told in the dead of night with a horde of young boys gathered around you and a flashlight held to illuminate only the bottom half of your face.

Yet here he sat; reveling in the fact that his best friend was currently one of these . . . things. Moreover, more than that, so were his other friends. Hell, his dad knew. The Hales probably knew, Derek especially.

How long had they been turned? It couldn’t have been until after he had left, after all Scott had still had asthma at the time and he certainly was not as strong as he seemingly was now. No, this had to have been somewhat of a recent development, and by “recent”, he only meant that it had been after he left.

He searched his mind for any hints Scott could have given to him over the years of their contact, only recalling one email where after a couple weeks of no contact Scott had said something like, “Yeah, I’ve been really sick lately,” but he had never thought anymore of it after making a perfunctory call to make sure that it wasn’t anything serious. He remembered Scott laughing over the phone saying,”No man, I’m all good now.”

It had all been such casual references; ones that he had completely overlooked without any second thought or trepidation. Not that he had had any reason to; after all, he had no reason to believe that Scott was trying to hide something from him.

Yet, here he was, running over any interaction in the past eight years that might have hinted to the dishonesty of his friends and his father.  
It hurt to think of how much everyone had lied to him, had kept things from him. He had not been this angry in a while; seething with an unfathomable rage that made his blood boil and had him itching for a fight.

Mindlessly, he dug into the back pocket of the jeans that lay on the floor, finally pulling out both his battery and phone, determined to at least let his frustrations out on someone.  
He stuck his phone back into his phone and waited anxiously as his phone lit up and restarted. It took a couple minutes for all of his missed notifications to flood in before he finally scrolled through all of them. There were dozens of missed calls from both his dad and Scott; many from last night and a couple of varying ones in the early hours of the morning.

Then, there was the assortment of text messages from his dad and Scott, too. Then, a separate one from an unknown number that simply read, I’m sorry.

He ignored that one, having a sinking suspicion as to who that one might be. That was a whole other issue that he definitely was not planning to touch with a ten-foot pole any time soon.  
He instead opened the unread text messages from Scott, all ranging from various pleas to come back and talk and understand what was going on, to the most recent ones that pleaded to call him back and tell him where he was currently.

His dad had left more calls, the few texts he had sent had been apologies and begging him to come back home. After mulling it over in his head, he decided that it hurt less to be deceived by Scott, so he decided to call him first.

He punched the Call button and held the phone up to his ear, heart pounding like crazy the whole time. He bit the end of his thumbnail to try to temper down some of the panic he was feeling, even though he wasn’t in the wrong here, it still scared his to confront something so bluntly.

The phone rang for about three seconds before the call was picked up. “Stiles?” Scott hurriedly said, sounding weak and out of breath.

Stiles remained silent for a couple seconds, finally swallowing the lump in his throat and answering tightly, “Yes.” No further words needed.

A relieved sigh fell loudly upon the speakers as Scott quickly answered him, “Thank God, dude. We were gonna go looking for you but figured you’d probably rather stay alo-,”  
“Scott,” he cut off annoyed, “What the fuck happened last night?”

It went silent on the other end. That was probably good, because he could barely hear over the rushing sound of his pulse in his ears ringing. Finally, Scott answered evenly, “What do you think happened?”

Stiles felt another unhealthy surge of anger at how Scott was once again talking around the subject instead of telling him the truth.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he yelled angrily into the speaker, “Why can’t you just be up front with me for once?” he could distantly here his voice echo into the speakers. He distantly wondered whether Scott had any enhanced senses, if maybe his voice was too loud on Scott’s end. If it was, it made him feel a sick sense of satisfaction.

He heard Scott breathe heavily into the speakers, the time allowing him to choose his words carefully and only proving Stiles’ point previous. When had all of the secrets started between them? When had Scott decided that he needed to lie to Stiles, to keep important information from him? It unnerved, shook him to the bone. This was his best friend, his brother. He had always been Stiles’ number one confidant, someone he had so wholeheartedly trusted with his life.

Not only that, but Scott had also been there to pick up the pieces. He had been there his last night when he was debating leaving or staying. He had firmly told Stiles, “You need to do what’s right for you, man. And I’m always gonna be there for you either way.” The unconditional support Scott had given him had contributed to the huge step to take the admission to NYU instead of Berkeley. Yet here was Scott; or more like an alternate version of his old self, keeping secrets from Stiles and breaking every rule of the unspoken bond they both held to.

“I think you know what’s going on, Stiles.” Scott finally said. He was able to hear the uncertainty ringing in his voice. Scott had never sounded more serious, except for when he had told Stiles that one day at school that his dad was gone and never coming back. The comparison of this tone to that one made him unconsciously shiver.

“I need to hear you say it, though.” He said back, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he fought the urge to throw up. His head was spinning and he could feel his hands beginning to sweat, shaking ever so slightly and amplifying the anxiety that radiated off him in waves.

“We’re werewolves. “And that was it. A blunt statement not meant for comfort, but only as an explanation. It both sufficed to give an answer, and at the same time, it only unnerved him further and induced his nausea more than the previous degree it had been before.

He took a shaky breath in, and then let out an even shakier exhale. He felt like crying and laughing hysterically at the same time. Never in his life had he imagined he would be at this point, having his best friend tell him that he was the stuff of myths. It was unbelievable to grasp, and yet it was the perfect answer to all of his questions, it was the perfect missing piece that fit snugly into the complex puzzle of Beacon Hills.

“Who all is a werewolf?” he croaked, unable to stop his voice from showing how overwhelmed and hurt he was. The fact that he even had to ask which of his friends were werewolves was both angering and saddening in and of itself, only a testament to how crazy and out of control his life had become in only the past few days. How quickly had everything he’d known been upturned and thrown around, blown up in his face right before his very eyes.

Scott sighed. “Well, there’s me, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd, but we’re part of the Hale Pack, it’s kind of like . . . a family.”

“Wait, what?” Choosing to ignore the family part, he cut Scott off, feeling an even larger sense of urgency. “Derek’s a werewolf too?” he felt his mind almost spinning out of control. How long had they all been werewolves? Who had . . . turned them? Why?

“Well, I mean, yeah.” Scott admitted, “He was the one who kinda helped us through the Change, to be honest.”

He ran his hands through his hair, absentmindedly tugging at some strands only so he could feel the sharp bouts of pain pull him back to the surface, away from the traveling thoughts of lies and betrayal and secrets.

“How long?” he finally asked, settling at the question at the forefront of his mind. 

“Who? Us or Derek?” Scott asked.

Stiles furrowed his brow, “Is there a difference?” he almost yelled into the phone, feeling exasperated and a bit squeamish. He was almost panting by now, the intensity of the situation almost taking the breath out of him.

“Well, yeah. Derek was born a wolf, we were turned.” Scott answered back and Stiles’ mind blanked. Without even thinking, he ended the call, throwing the phone numbly back into the pile of dirty clothes from the night previous.

His mind was reeling. The thought that the Derek he had known all his life was something . . . different, was daunting to say at the very least.

For a couple minutes, he’d sat there in silence, thinking over his options. At first, he just felt like running away. He had his car, most of his belongings, if he really wanted to he could just leave, go back home. That would leave so many questions unanswered.

He had already left once before, and look how good that treated him? He came back crippled by fear and had made mostly an idiot of himself. Running over his past actions, he only felt embarrassment and indignity that he had resorted to such low-level and emotionally influenced actions. At no point had he actually gotten down to business or gotten a straightforward answer all by himself, only getting them revealed through happenstance or when the subject themselves would reveal them.

So he decided to just suck it up and actually get down to business. There was no more time to be the scared, trepidatious kid that he had been acting like lately. It was the perfect call to action.  
He picked his keys off the bedside table and immediately pulled up a GPS to find the Hale house. It was time for answers.

*********  
Stiles felt little judgment cloud his mind as he drove through the back roads to the Hale house. At first, he had considered driving straight to Derek’s loft, but being in such close proximity, especially with only the two of them, it felt like a dangerous situation. Besides, more often than not Derek would be here anyway.

He could barely register parking in front of their house and slamming his door open, not bothering to close it behind him. 

“Get out!” he yelled to the front of the house, feeling like some sort of maniac, “I know you can hear me! Come on!”

It only took about five seconds before the Hales all piled out, looking grim. There was Talia, Derek’s mom, accompanied by Peter and all of the daughters. Finally, last but definitely not least, Derek stepped out onto the porch.

“Well?” he called out hysterically, throwing his arms up, “All this time? You kept this secret from me for 26 years?”  
Talia looked away shamefully, Laura gripping her shoulder. Even Peter had the good sense not to say anything, looking uncharacteristically abashed and scolded. It was only Derek who stepped forward,  
wild eyes only trained on Stiles.

“And you especially, you kept this from me?” he spat, his anger almost shrouding his vision.

Everyone was silent. Stiles gave another hysterical laugh- or more like a puff of air unconsciously escaping from his lips. “I can’t believe this. You were my family. You stayed with me through my mother’s death.” His voice caught on the last sentence.

Stiles shook his head and felt tears blooming at the cusp of his eyelids. “I trusted you, all of you!” He felt furious, betrayed. He saw Derek shift from one foot to the other, and the small movement only had Stiles’ eyes trained on him further. “And you! After everything we’ve been through?”

Derek took a couple tentative steps forward, hands splayed in front of him as if calming down a spooked animal, “Just, let me explain.” He said softly.  
He threw his arms up again to gesture at the forest around him, “Go ahead! You have my attention.”

Derek’s face twisted into an expression that looked extremely close to pitying, which had his hackles rise. “Not here,” Derek pleaded. “Please, just . . . somewhere private.” His eyes raced around his family. While he hated him, Stiles understood. However, he was still going to be in control.

“Fine,” he shrugged. “Let’s go somewhere private. But it’s gonna be nearby, I don’t want you to have time to change your story.”  
Derek nodded forcefully. “Yes, let’s just . . . walk out a bit?” he looked hopeful, like a puppy after being kicked. Stiles could barely appreciate the expression in his head without turning the slightest bit upset. 

Without answering, he merely turned around and began walking back into the forest. Behind him, he could hear soft words comforting Derek and he felt his shoulders tense. No one had comforted him; no one had helped him through this. In fact, he had had to deal with all of this on his own.

He heard Derek follow shortly after him, only letting his presence be known by the cracked twigs crushed underfoot behind him.  
They walked for about twenty minutes, Stiles getting hotter, sweatier, and angrier as each second passed. Finally, he saw the creek up ahead and wheeled around, visibly startling Derek, who flinched back in surprise.

“Everything. Now.” He ground out through clenched teeth.

He cast his eyes at Derek for only a couple seconds before physically turning away again. Even glancing at Derek gave him a lump in his throat, made his eyes prickle with unshed tears. Derek looked as good as he had in the diner, as good as the day he had left him, as good as the day he broke Stiles’ heart. He quickly realized that he would be the one at a disadvantage if he kept on looking at Derek; the overwhelming urge to sob in front of him and beg him why was too strong. He did not want to submit that easily, though. He wanted to be strong for once.

He heard Derek shift behind him. “My family . . . we’re all werewolves.” Derek’s voice cracked at the end, and Stiles got a sick surge of pleasure when he heard it. “I know that,” he retorted, still not looking at Derek, “I kind of figured that out last night, thanks.”

It was silent on the other end. Derek didn’t seem to want to say anything, which Stiles was not going to have at all.

After a couple more tense minutes, he exhaled harshly and half turned to meet Derek’s eyes, ignoring every instinct in his body to crawl back.  
“So,” his own voice sounded hard in his ears past the sound of blood rushing, “The whole time we were . . . we knew each other, you were a werewolf?” He had stopped himself just in time before he talked about what they used to be. After all, Derek had a different view of them together.

Derek nodded back, eyes shining. Derek had no right to cry here; not when it was he who had caused all of this. Caused everything.  
He shook his head and looked back down to his scuffed sneakers. “Why?” he finally asked after what felt like decades. Derek didn’t answer right away, until Stiles looked back up at him.

Derek shrugged, looking distraught. “I . . . it was never the right time, or place. By the time I should have told you . . . you were gone.”

Anger and unbridled rage hit him all at once. “And whose fault was that, huh?” he spat venomously, “Who made me leave?”

Derek took a step forward, “Stiles, things are different now, I-“Stiles waved him off.

“No,” he said, turning his back to Derek and taking a couple steps away. “It’s too late, I don’t give a shit anymore.” It was a lie and he was sure Derek could tell, but he didn’t say anything. “I’m done; I know all that I need to. Coming back here was a mistake; I don’t know why I bothered.”

He began walking without saying anything else, and was part pleased and part disappointed that Derek did nothing to stop him. His head throbbed, it felt like it was clouded and heavy and he had to go somewhere else to clear it. Being around Derek or anyone in the “Pack” for that matter would only stress him out more. 

He was sure Derek could follow him to the motel and find him without Stiles even knowing, but when he arrived back to his temporary room, nothing was misplaced.  
He lay down on his bed, blankly staring up at the ceiling not knowing what to feel like. It was hard to swallow that throughout Stiles’ and Derek’s . . . thing, he had been lied to in many ways. If it was possible, that made the memories sting even more than they already did. 

He didn’t know what his next move was. Almost every part of him screamed to just leave without looking back, but he thought of his dad, and Scott’s wedding. He didn’t know why he still thought about them, but t was impossible to control. His dad had broken his trust, sure, but he was also the only family Stiles’ had. Even thinking of the lies tough, made his stomach turn.  
As if he knew Stiles was thinking about him, his phone rang and across the screen flashed Dad with an old picture of him smiling at a barbecue a couple years back.

Stiles sighed and picked up his phone. “What?” he asked, feeling defeated already.

“Stiles, son, I don’t even know where to start,” his father’s voice responded wetly, as if he had been recently crying, “I can’t even fathom how you’re feeling right now. I’m so, so, sorry that I lied to you, that I kept all these things form you.”

Stiles sniffed, blinking back oncoming tears without a second thought.

Stiles’ dad continued, “Please, please come home. I know that I- that I fucked up, but it was never my secret to tell, and I never knew how to tell you.” Stiles wiped his face.  
“Please, son, we can’t end it like this, I can’t have you leave again knowing you’ll never come back. I know I screwed up, and I am willing to do anything it takes to get you back, I will answer any questions you have, just please come back-“he was bordering on hysterical when Stiles finally broke.

“Fine,” he croaked, “I’ll come back. But you need to give me just- just some time. I just . . . don’t know how to feel right now.” He gave in and tried not to feel weak while doing it. The last time he heard his dad this torn up was when his mother had just died, and his dad didn’t know how to cope.

“Okay, okay, okay, thank you Stiles, thank you.” His dad repeated. Stiles hung up without any other word, afraid that he would just break again.  
He set out to pack up all of his stuff, stuffing all of his clothes into the duffel he had snagged from his closet before leaving. He went to the bathroom to gather his toiletries before stopping dead in his tracks.

On the mirror, written in what could only be red marker, was the sentence, “Don’t play with fire, or you’ll get burned.”

He felt like screaming. A small, hopeful part of him said that it could have been left over from the last guess, but it looked too much like the other messages Stiles had gotten to be just a coincidence. 

His headache came back in full throttle; squeezing his skull as he hurriedly grabbed all of his items without looking at the mirror and shoving them into his bag. He felt sick, couldn’t even bare to give the mirror a second look.

Amidst all of the recent events, he had completely forgotten about the threats he had been receiving since arriving. Whoever was following him knew he had moved from his dad’s house. Stiles then realized, with a sick thought, that they might have even followed him enough to know about werewolves. That thought raised the hairs on his arms even more, terrified that the stalker would somehow use the information against him.

He took his bag and left without a second thought, not even bothering to wipe the mirror clean. His head rang with even more questions than it had before, and he had a sickening thought that said he might not get his answers in the best way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos and comments! they motivate me to get my shit together and write lol
> 
> my tumblr is: raginginsideme  
> and my twitter is also: raginginsideme

**Author's Note:**

> you guys know what to do-tell me what you think!


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